


That Which is Infinite

by jadeddiva



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-16
Updated: 2011-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-26 03:21:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 30,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/278096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadeddiva/pseuds/jadeddiva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He keeps trying to tell himself this was a good decision, but there is lingering doubt in the back of his mind about bringing an innocent into this game. Barbara Gordon, meet Batman. Post BB during The Dark Knight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

1.

When he started this, he wanted revenge. He wanted to clean up the city of Gotham. He wanted to do so many things and then he did them and it was impressive, to say the least (the newspapers say the most and he likes pretending to be modest). And yes, it cost him things – his house, Rachel, the remnants of his past burned and scattered in the wind – but he hopes it'll make him stronger (why do we fall?...)

He thinks his father would be proud.

The foundations laid in the southeast corner aren't even dry when he gets another lead on this new criminal, leaving a calling card at a second murder scene. Gordon looks worried, and he tries to put him at ease but it's not that easy. There's something about this which is much more menacing, perhaps because behind the mask of insanity he knows there may very well be clear-cut genius, not just idealism which was his first enemy's undoing.

Or maybe this new criminal is just a sociopath. Either way, it won't be easy.

Not to mention Crane still hasn't been caught.

And Arkham is still a wreck, inmates still missing and some turning up as far as Metropolis.

And Gotham's crime syndicate is in all-out warfare as each boss struggles to take Falcone's place.

And the Gotham City P.D. is as corrupt as ever.

And he's got to investigating to do.

The Gotham City Public Library looks exactly how Bruce remembers it. His better childhood memories are of this place: his mother used to take him here on Saturdays to listen to storytellers and have his face painted by clowns. He remembers the architecture, the way everything looked so big to him then and still looks big to him now.

Too bad he's not here for anything as simple as books.

There was an article in the newspaper today about a new exhibit on Batman in the library, which of course he is very interested in. He arrives and asks the woman at the front desk, who directs him towards a small alcove and, well, the newspaper didn't really give it any justice.

It's not an exhibit on him, not really – it's an exhibit on justice, the legal system, and law enforcement. "Is Justice Blind?" a large banner asks, and underneath it are not just pictures of him, but pictures of police, outlaws, vigilantes. There is an image of the notorious Green Arrow from Metropolis next to his own. There are books – dozens of them – on everything from law enforcement to the Constitution to superheroes who take the law into their own hand. No conclusion is drawn nor any interpretation given, just the suggestion that reading the literature presented may help individuals make up their own minds.

"Who put together that exhibit?" he asks the woman at the front desk, who pages someone and a few minutes later a young, pretty brunette is walking towards him.

"Good afternoon!" she greets him with a smile. "I heard you had questions about the display?" She is young, maybe mid-twenties, with intelligent eyes.

"I was just wondering who put together something so comprehensive," he asks. "The newspapers were right - this is a really great display."

"Thank you. It's more or less something we try to do monthly to get people reading. It was my turn this month so I thought why not something topical? I mean, all the city can talk about these days is Batman." She smiles, confident in her work and he thinks that she reminds him of Rachel but maybe no (she has bright green eyes, this girl).

"It's a very nice job. My name's Bruce," he says, introducing himself.

"Barbara Gordon. Do you have any questions or are you just interested in Batman?" she asks, very professional.

"Do you have more information available?" he asks. "On Batman, that is." She glances towards the front desk, where several women are watching.

"I do. If you don't mind stepping into my office," she says, voice dropping. He nods and follows her past circulation and the bank of computers towards a small office with a small desk and laptop. She offers him her chair, focusing on the computer as she types something into the browser window. A screen pops up, and he's surprised he's never found this before.

"Bat Files?" he asks.

"He's a public figure, so creating and maintaining an archive is almost a civic duty. It's been really useful to newspaper reporters." She laughs, a bit uneasily. "I'm sorry, I'm such a geek."

There's something about her that can't help but make him smile. "I don't think that," he says. "I think it's interesting."

"That's what my uncle calls it, so it's probably the best word to describe it." She pauses. "If you're looking for anything about him, might as well start there."

"What's your opinion on this Bat Man?" he asks, curious. She shrugs.

"I admire what he does, but I also think that there's a lot that can't be solved by merely capturing criminals. But…it's a start." She pauses. "People forget that we came so close to chaos only to be pulled back by him."

"I think he's insane," Bruce volunteers, and she laughs.

"Well, everyone has their own opinion. I happen to be a fan." She scribbles something on a yellow sticky note. "Here's the address – check it out, and if you have any suggestions, let me know. It's entirely my own doing, and not affiliated with the library."

She is earnest, and he likes that about her – though he's a bit wary of so much analysis of what he's doing each night.

"Thank you for your help," he says.

"No problem," she says.

He leaves wondering if she's any relation to the one Gotham city detective that actually trusts him.

 _People forget that we came so close to chaos only to be pulled back by him._

Her words linger in his ears until he reaches the mansion.

 

When he answers Gordon's signal that night, he knows that Barbara Gordon is the niece of Jim Gordon, adopted when her father drank himself to death after her mother's car crash (she was seven then). She went to Gotham High, then got a scholarship to Metropolis University before returning to Gotham to work in the public library. She is twenty-four.

He has also spent time going through her website. Not only does she have links to every newspaper article on him, but she's starting to speculate on his motivations, his suit (she thinks it's body armor, which isn't that hard but still - ) and soon he knows she'll start trying to pick out his identity from the mass of Gotham citizens. It worries him.

It is early – not yet nine – and the skies over the sky are so black that the signal gleams in the darkness, casting light over the city below the clouds.

"We've got another clue," Gordon says, pulling an evidence bag from his pocket and it's another card with a spot of blood in the middle.

"Who were the victims?" he asks, turning the bag over in his hands.

"Victim, then time," Gordon says. "Small business owner. A bookstore, actually. Closing up and –" Gordon pauses, swallows. "Took all the money in the register and the entire stock of performance arts books."

"Taste for the theatrical, huh?" he says.

"Yeah," Gordon says, and he can't help but notice the sadness in the old cop's voice.

"I need this," he says, and Gordon shrugs.

"I'll make you a copy," Gordon says, shifting nervously.

"I need this as soon as possible," he tells Gordon.

"Then take it, but bring it back," he says. "The lab work is already done but if I get in trouble for tampering with evidence –"

"I'll return it."

"This one's not going to be easy," Gordon says.

"They never are," he replies.

 

 

Sometimes Barbara thinks Bruce Wayne's visit to the library was the biggest thing to happen since sliced bread.

His visit is the top of staff gossip about for the next few days, which isn't surprising since they are women and he's a handsome (and single) billionaire. And since the only person he talked to was Barbara (the old lady at the main desk doesn't count) she's the definitive expert on him and has to reiterate exactly what he smelled like (he smelled really good) and the color of his eyes (hazel) numerous times an hour. She's not enjoying this new role, not nearly as much as she enjoyed actually meeting someone relatively famous – now she's one degree closer to some of those celebrities she idolizes and that's really freaking cool.

She really should have mentioned something to him about library funding, at least given him some sort of line about the necessity of libraries for the public good or something. It would have been shameless but how many billionaires regularly come into libraries and how many polo ponies do they really need? The Inquisitor says he has seven and seven polo ponies could equal so much for this shitty old place.

And, they really do need it. The library recently lost their web server to a virus. Another is on order from Wayne Enterprises but it's taking forever. She doesn't even want to think about the photocopiers they need. It's enough to make her feel exhausted, but she's already tired as it is.

She spent last night working on her site and so she is running on three hours of sleep. She is coming back from the break room, where she poured her third cup of coffee, which she almost spills when she see Bruce Wayne lingering outside her office.

"You're back," she says meekly. Out of the corner of her eye she sees one of the circulation librarians lingering in the hallway. She does not need this and, she thinks, neither does he. He smiles as she unlocks the door, taking her coffee from her as she fiddles with the old lock.

"Thanks. You're quite the topic of discussion around here," she says He leans on the doorframe, and she thinks he is very handsome in his nonchalance.

"I am?" he asks with a smug grin. He turns around to look at the two women – now four – staring at him. He smiles and waves and they twitter in their little corner. When he turns back to her, he rolls his eyes. Barbara tries not to spit her drink onto her recently dry-cleaned pants.

"So I read your Bat Files last night," he says.

Swallowing the hot coffee is suddenly the hardest thing in the world.

"You must have been very bored," she responds. She made that site in her spare time and the design is crap and while she's proud of it, she'd rather not have Bruce Wayne know what a big geek she is – even if she does work in a library, and it is searchable.

"Being a billionaire playboy is not all it's cracked up to be at times," Bruce admits, and she can't help but smile. He seems really nice for a guy with seven polo ponies.

"So what did you think of it?" she asks. She can't say she's not interested in his – or anyone else's - opinion.

"I thought it was very well done and very thorough," he says. "You put a lot of work into it. It's the most popular site in Gotham according to Google."

"That has nothing to do with me and everything to do with him," she points out, but she can't help but feel some pride at the fact that people besides herself find it interesting.

"You designed it," he points out.

"That I did," she says. She notices he's holding a book - ones on vigilantes. "And I see our display has encouraged you to do some additional reading." She smiles, because if the display can convince Bruce Wayne, it can convince anyone.

"I have a lot of free time on my hands," he tells her, examining the dust jacket. "But I did want to stop by and tell you I enjoyed your site."

"Well thank you," she says. "I hope you enjoy your book."

It's not until mid-afternoon that she realizes that billionaires can buy books by the dozen instead of checking them out of the library, and that her website has a special "Questions and Comments" form for visitors to fill out. She's not sure what the implications of any of this means, but it's enough to make her blush.  
Barbara Gordon takes the train home to a small efficiency apartment in a middling neighborhood. She walks three blocks from the train station to her apartment every day.

Today, however, she is being followed. And she knows it. There is a tension in her shoulders that makes her seem like she's ready to defend herself, and it makes him sad to think that this is what Gotham has come to, young girls being accosted on the way home from work.

A blur of black leather and the attacker grabs for her purse.

She strikes out, a self-defense move that startles her attacker – this girl is stronger than she looks. A blow to the knees, another kick in the head, then she looks around to see if there are any more.

It's obvious she's not expecting to see a man dressed in black body-armor. She gasps.

"Are you really him?" she asks.

He nods. "You were expecting someone else?"

"I wasn't expecting anyone," she says.

"I need your help," he tells her. "Is there anywhere we can go to talk?"


	2. 2

2.

The first thing he says when they reach the roof - after he grabbed her and they were speeding towards the sky – is "I've seen your website."

 _Shit._ "I can take it down if you'd like," she says. He's an imposing figure on the rooftop next to her, so much more imposing than the newspapers which makes perfect sense and oh hell she's just been kidnapped by Batman.

"That's not why I'm here," he tells her. "I need your help." He pauses. "Sit down."

She does, and realizes that she's shaking and very very cold. She wraps her arms around her chest, feeling her heart beat wildly above her ribcage.

"What do you need from me?" she asks.

"I need you to analyze these," he tells her. She is surprised when he hands her several photocopies of playing cards.

"What's this?" she asks, looking at the copies carefully.

"It's evidence," he says. "I need you to find out all you can about the design of the cards."

"Why? They look fairly straightforward," she tells him.

"I need to know where they came from,"

"They're probably just ordinary cards."

"I also need you to tell me which of the following books involve any sort of dramatic imagery," he says, handing her another list (where are these things coming from? Does he have some sort of bag under his cape?)

"Like Jokers?" she asks, holding up the photocopies.

"Exactly."

She scans the list quickly – nothing some searches won't tell her. The cards are more ambiguous and she's not sure that she'll be able to give him any information but –

"Wait," she says, finally regaining the ability to stand. "Why?"

"Because anyone who put together that website should be able to find me this information," he tells her, sounding frustrated with her. She cringes as his tone.

"Okay," she says. Out of the mysterious cape comes a cell phone.

"Unlisted number," he says, handing it to her. "When you figure something out, call the number saved on the phone. Leave a message. I'll contact you about another meeting."

And he's gone into the fog, leaving her alone on the rooftop. Questions are on the tip of her tongue including Why me? And What if I don't want to? but she knows that she's conditioned to want to help him just like the rest of the city. She knows that this is probably something important, and that she shouldn't ask, and as she descends the stairs to her fifth-floor apartment, she's already thinking of ways to analyze the playing cards.

 

 

"I hear you have a new boss."

Rachel doesn't even look up from her desk, which is a statement to how well she knows him.

"He hasn't started work yet, so he's not really my boss at the moment," she says, finishing a note.

"Semantics, Rach. I hope you don't have lunch plans." He smiles, hoping she'll join him.

"Fine," she says. She gives him a look that seems to imply that her mind has been made up about him, but he knows for a fact that things can change and often will. She stands up, looking for her purse, but he has that in his hand along with her coat.

"Tell me about him," he says in the car.

"I knew you had an ulterior motive," she remarks, "but that's fine. Harvey Dent, thirty-nine years old, from Chicago. Never lost a case as their D.A. Very hard on crime bosses. He's vowing to clean up Gotham. I hope he succeeds…for all our sakes."

Bruce nods and says nothing more, as they are at the restaurant. He helps her out of the car, and escorts her to his usual table in the corner. His father always took his mother here, and there's a bittersweet tinge in being here with Rachel, after everything that's happened.

They talk about everything and nothing. They discuss the latest baseball scores and why global warming will ruin them all. They talk about Alfred and reminisce about their childhood and when he drops her back off at the D.A.'s office, there's a wistful look in her eye that he hopes, maybe, will redeem him.

Some days, he's not sure he'll ever fix what broke between them. Anger, revenge, and now a black bat keep them from each other. As much as he'd like to hope for the day Rachel talked about, the day where Gotham won't need him anymore, he doesn't think that's possible. Rachel has her goals, and he has his own, and things will always keep them apart. The luxury of her friendship has a cost he's not entirely sure he's willing to pay.

 

 

Barbara calls him two days later, leaving a short message on the phone.

"I've got some leads. Let me know how to get you the information."

He does not call her back, but instead leaves a note taped to her bathroom mirror. Rooftop. Midnight.

"How did you get in?" she asks him, holding the note and a manila folder in her hands.

"Secrets of the trade," he says with a smile.

"Fine," she says, rolling her eyes. "I managed to track down some similar playing cards on eBay, then I cross-referenced them through a material culture catalogue at the City Museum – don't ask how. They're from Gotham, manufactured by a company that made board games. Name's on the card right under the foot."

She hands him an enlarged copy, along with a printed dossier about the company and its business and the reasons it went bankrupt during the depression.

"So they are fairly common in Gotham," he says.

"Yes and no. Yes, the cards were sold in Gotham but they were only sold for a year before each pack was redesigned. That pack was manufactured in 1987, but I'm not sure exactly what that'll get you."

"It's a start," he tells her, but he's doubtful that it proves anything because the cards could have been lost then found and it's almost a dead end. He can't say he's disappointed – he expected that much. The cards were just a way to test out the strength of her research skills.

"As for the books, some of them did check out, specifically the ones I highlighted," Barbara says, handing him another list. He reads the names and nods.

"Can you get me copies of these?" he asks.

"Do you have a library card?" she asks, raising an eyebrow and he smiles despite himself. "Yes, I can get them. Do you want me to look through them as well?"

"I'd like your thoughts on the subject," he says. "Thank you."

"No problem," she says. There's a moment of silence before they both start to speak at once.

"I'm going to need your help again," he says and she starts to ask "Do you think you'll need more help?"

She laughs and he remains silent, weighing the information she has given him. "I assume you'll let me know?"

He nods. "I know where to find you."

"Just knock first," she says. She looks away, out at the cityscape for a moment, then back to him.

"Should I call when I get the books?" she asks. He nods. There is more silence.

"Well, I'll be going now," she says, heading towards the stairs.

"Barbara," he says, and she turns, startled that he's used her name. "Don't tell anyone that you're helping me."

She nods, turning back towards the stairs. He watches her go without saying a word. Some of the information is valuable, and he was right to suspect her research skills impeccable. He keeps trying to tell himself this was a good decision, but there is lingering doubt in the back of his mind about bringing an innocent into this game.  
Rachel holds a small get-together when Harvey Dent arrives – colleagues, important people, and Bruce. He shows up fashionably late, eager to meet the man of the moment.

"Bruce Wayne," Dent says, shaking his hand. "I've heard so much about you." He is about Bruce's height and weight and dressed in a dark suit. He looks battle-hardened, and not at all weary, and Bruce is glad for that.

"Well, there are so many stories to tell," he says in response.

"Rachel said you two grew up together," Dent tells him, "and I've read about your exploits in the newspapers. You've led a very full life, Mr. Wayne." Bruce can't tell if he's being sarcastic or generally friendly.

"Thank you," Bruce says. "I'm very eager to hear about your ideas for Gotham."

"We should do lunch," Dent says, "that is, if you can fit me in between polo matches."

"The ponies do need to rest," Bruce concedes with a laugh. He sees Rachel approaching, but just as she gets near his phone rings.

"Signal in the sky," Alfred says. "Less than five minutes."

"Thank you." He hangs up, then decides he needs a drink. He asks where the wine is (the kitchen) and heads there, inadvertently catching Rachel's attention as he goes.

Rachel frowns before someone across the room shouts for people to look out the window, and he's gone by the time she looks back.  
2 AM phone calls should be outlawed, Barbara thinks as she roles over, looking for her phone only to find that it's off. It's the other one - his cell phone – that is ringing.

"I hate you," she says when she answers it.

"Meet me on the rooftop in five minutes," he orders before hanging up. She stares at the phone for a second and then throws it across the room, pulling on sweatpants and a sweatshirt and running to the roof.

He's already there, waiting for her. As always, there's a folder in his hands.

"I really do hate you," she says, taking the file from him and skimming through it. She raises an eyebrow. "How soon?"

"As soon as you can."

"I'll see what I can do." She really doesn't know where to start with this one, and figures she'll look at it in the morning.

"Thank you." He turns to leave, then turns back to face her. "I'm sorry I woke you."

"No, I get it," she says. "Don't worry. I'll see what I can do." She realizes she's repeating herself, but before she can apologize for being tired, he's gone.

"Oh, and your books are in," she tells the cool night air. "I'll just call you next week."

As she returns to her apartment, narrowly avoiding the attention of a group of rowdy college students entering the stairwell on the seventh floor, she thinks that this is a new chapter of her life: librarian by day, Batman's lackey by night. On the one hand, she finally thinks that she's making a difference in Gotham. But the hours spent researching, days spent avoiding suspicion when she photocopies certain things or makes inter-library loan requests for particular books, will take their toll, she knows, in the days ahead. And one day, just as suddenly as he found her, he will leave her and she will go back to a life not nearly as interesting, but much less complicated.

She wonders if her brief tenure as his aid will be worth it, but she knows that if she can help him save any life, it will.  
Barbara marks up the books she finds for him, complete with annotations for other sources that she could get. Yellow sticky notes that say DO NOT MARK ON THIS BOOK OR SO HELP ME GOD I WILL HAVE YOUR HEAD cover the books and he can't help but laugh. There's something in her scholastic nature that he can't help but find endearing.

She's written up her own summary of what she thinks it all means: it's a study of performance art, the use of the jester or joker for dramatic affect, the purpose of playing the fool. She makes the comment that court jesters often had great influence, hiding their power behind the façade of idiocy.

Bruce remembers a trip to a tarot card reader back at Princeton. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but when she drew the Fool and told him he would make a terrible mistake, he had walked out, thinking she was wrong (he was asked to leave school two weeks later).

He does a quick web search to find the image and what it means. Innocence, ignorance, freedom, perversity, audacity, truth.

Not even Albert's tea can chase away the fear that lingers in the corners of his mind about the true nature of his new, as yet unseen, enemy.


	3. Chapter 3

3.

"How's work going?" Uncle Jim asks, and Barbara has to stop herself before she asks "Which job?" She considers what she does for him a job, since it takes up her free time though she receives little compensation other than the knowledge he probably has an eye out for her, keeping her safe.

"We just got a donation," she says, placing the dry dish on the counter and picking another form the drainer, "from Wayne Enterprises. Enough to get high speed internet, a new photocopier, and some subscriptions to databases and online journals."

The donation wasn't random: Bruce Wayne had been back once more, about a week ago. He had knocked on her office door, taken out a checkbook, and written a number she had never seen before on that piece of paper (they photocopied it on the old copier and hung it on the break room wall).

What she doesn't tell her uncle is the teasing she endures from her colleagues about Bruce Wayne's 'crush' on her. She can handle the jokes (she blushes at the mere mention of him) but it's the insinuations that she showed Bruce Wayne the more 'unorthodox' uses of the library that make her cringe. As a consolation, she knows that it's pure gossip made up by a few single women well past their prime who are jealous of the fact that she may have attracted his attention.

But that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt, and that doesn't mean she hasn't locked her door and tried hard not to cry on the bad days. There's no point in telling anyone, since it's just gossip and it will pass.

"That's very kind of him," her uncle says, as he turns off the sink. "I'm glad that he's following in his father's shoes."

"I'm glad that he wanted to help us," she says. "Money makes my job easier." It's true, because it does. Having a nicer photocopier and the online resources allows her to do more work for her other job, and she likes knowing she's helping the savior of Gotham.

Her uncle laughs. "Money makes everyone's job easier."

"True that," she says with a laugh. "Seen Batman recently?"

It was a joke between them and as far as he knows, it still is – her questioning him about Batman, him demurring and her persisting because she seems to care so much. He teases her and calls her the Bat Girl because she knows so much about the caped crusader, and she thinks that's ridiculous – or so she thought, until the flesh and blood man who saves their city became a part of her life.

She knows her uncle walks a narrow line between dealing with Batman and the police department, corrupt as always. She wonders how he survives in the sick, twisted, rotten mess.

"Two nights ago," her uncle volunteers. "Briefly."

"Oh," she says, trying to sound disappointed. She's not, though, because she's a little less in awe than she was before, just a little.

"He's just a man, Barbara," her uncle says. "A man with body armor and a penchant for justice."

"I know," she says. She puts the last plate on the table. "I better go - I'm exhausted," she says. "I had to work late last night. Thank you for dinner."

"Be safe," he says, kissing her on the check. She smiles and gives him a hug, then goes to find her Aunt Barb, who is putting little Jimmy to bed. A few more hugs and kisses and she's outside, heading to her car.

But she is not alone, she realizes, when she sees a hulking black shape in the shadows.

"Me or him?" she asks.

"Both," he replies, unmoving. "Happy Thanksgiving."

"Thanks," she says. "Same to you." It's so odd to be having a conversation with him, in the middle of an alleyway, but not as weird as it would have been weeks before. It's just…he's Batman and she's Barbara Gordon and never in a million years did she ever think she'd meet him. Or Bruce Wayne, now that she thinks about it (she tries not to).

"You okay?" he asks, his voice surprisingly soft.

"I'm fine," she says. "I just – I'm – I'm okay. Just tired," she recovers with a smile and a shrug.

If he is just a man, and he hides behind his mask and armor and really does want justice in the world, she wonders what he's like. Who he is. If he has a family or a girlfriend or whatever. If this makes him happy.

"I better go," she says. "He might think it suspicious if he finds me out here with you."

"Drive safe," he says and she nods.

"I will."

…

She's secure about her research, almost cocky when it comes to her intelligence, but there are moments when she gets distracted and loses her train of thought completely, and that's when he knows she is worrying about his opinion of her. She wants him to like her, something natural because if he doesn't like her, it makes her job harder and he's sure the gruff demeanor he adopts when he's Batman is every bit as intimidating as he wants it to be.

He honestly does like her, though. He wants to assure her that her work is valuable to him, that he appreciates the time and effort she puts into this research. He doesn't speak much – he's still afraid of giving it all away, especially to someone he's met as Bruce on three occasions – and remains distant, a part of the night and darkness, something to be feared. But sometimes he'll slip – a concerned word when she looks particularly tired and stressed, a question about her day or her life. She's the only one that makes him break character, and he really doesn't understand why.

Their criminal has struck again – this time, a chemical plant owned by Wayne Enterprises. There is another playing card but they already know it is useless (though they do call him 'The Joker' because of that card). What matters most are the chemicals he took – some, not all, of the stock – and the possible combinations of each. Lucius is working on the combinations, and he has asked Barbara to start researching chemical warfare.

Just as he is getting ready to leave, he finds her looking at him with great interest.

"Everything all right?" he asks, worried for a moment that somehow she knows his identify.

"I'm trying to figure out what kind of man you are," she says, then seems to shake herself out of her daze with a lazy smile. He breathes a sigh of relief.

"I'm a man who spends his free time dressed like a bat," he says jokingly. "Taking that into consideration, I'm probably criminally insane."

She laughs, the sound pure and startling in the night air. "In that case," she says, "I really shouldn't be spending my evenings out here with you on a rooftop."

"I wouldn't spend my evenings with me," he mutters, and he's not quite sure she hears him.

"Still," she says, cocking her head to one side, "but are you red or white wine? Steak or vegetarian? Accountant by day or professional athlete? Happy or not?"

"Those are a lot of questions," he tells her. She shrugs.

"I know. None of which will ever be answered," she says. "But I do hope for your sake that you're happy."

I'm not he thinks but says nothing to that affect. Instead, he says "I like steak," before jumping over the ledge. When he lands on the pavement below, he thinks it's interesting that she wants him to be happy. Everyone expects him to be happy these days, and the fact that he's not seems to escape their notice.

…

Lunch with Harvey Dent is delayed a month, and when it does happen Bruce is on edge. Lucius has only told him some of the chemical compounds that could be created, and the options range from simple sedatives to toxic gases that could take out all of Gotham if necessary. Barbara has given him a list of known chemical attacks as far back as ancient China, with another report on biological warfare versus chemical warfare, the differences and similarities and potential fallout.

She also included a list of suggestions on how to avoid attracting psychotic lowlifes (Alfred especially enjoyed number seven, 'Pretending to be a bat is just asking for trouble').

Dent arrives late, rushing in from jury selection. Since he's been in town, there has already been one trial of a mob enforcer, and this new trial looks like it'll take down another of Gotham's crime families.

"Sorry," he apologizes to Bruce, who shrugs.

"You're the man of the hour," Bruce tells him. "You've got more obligations than I do."

"Never a dull moment," Dent agrees. "This new case should be tricky." He tells Bruce as much as he can about the family, the Flannigans, and the horrible deeds they've done. Bruce pretends to be interested, but he knows all of this already. He is interested, however, in Dent's enthusiasm, in his dedication to justice and how it reminds him of his own (without the psychotic lowlifes, of course).

"I'm glad Gotham has you," Bruce says, "and I wish they had you years before." He plays the part of the still-grieving son well, because he is still grieving for his parents and the innocence that he lost.

"I wish the same thing," Dent responds, and Bruce knows he is sincere. "How is the rebuilding going? I hear that mansion of yours is something spectacular."

"One wing is finished," Bruce says, taking a sip of his coffee. "I'm paying an exorbitant amount just to get them to work through Gotham's winter fury but I hope that it'll pan out in the end." The East Wing has been erected and the interior decorators are due to show up at the end of next week.

"Where do billionaires stay when they burn their homes down?" Dent asks.

"In the hotels they own," Bruce says with a smile. "Let it never be said that impulse purchases are a bad idea."

He stays in the penthouse of the Hotel Gotham. Lucius, who is an intelligent man, has already figured out what Kevlar and memory cloth equal, and offered to keep everything underground at Wayne Enterprises but Bruce thinks it better that they keep it out in the country, hidden from prying eyes (he spends a good deal of time at the mansion watching construction to make sure no one stumbles upon the Cave).

"Well, you certainly have the life," Dent says with an easy laugh.

Bruce forces a smile. Everyone always assumes wealth is enough to buy happiness, but all the sports cars and hotels and new houses cannot bring back the dead, or fight off the loneliness that lingers in the dark of the night. Not even crime fighting, bashing the heads of criminals together and saving that streetwalker from a horrible fate can appease for long. It's a life he would wish on no one, and curses that its his own.

…

"It'll be Christmas soon," she says. "Do you have any plans?"

She feels ridiculous asking him questions like that, so personal in nature for someone who hides everything from the world he tries to save, but it's the holiday season and it's all they talk about at work. There are decorations up and she has been organizing the staff party, which will be extra nice since they had some money left over from Bruce Wayne's donation. Instead of staying up all hours making cookies, they're getting the event catered and she's looking forward to a night of drinking with her coworkers and flirting with the new, incredibly cute security guard.

"No," he says. "Do you?"

"Christmas dinner with my uncle, but that's about it. I'm going to Metropolis for New Year's, if that's okay with you. I figure if you really need me, you can call or something." She can't believe she's asking him for permission to go out of town, but he's been contacting her more and more these days and it seems like he's afraid of something.

"Have fun," is all he says. Is he angry? Jealous? Does he care at all?

"How will you get by without me?" she asks jokingly, trying to ease the uncomfortable silence.

"I'll find a way," he says. "Merry Christmas."

"Same to you. And happy Hanukah, just in case."

He disappears without a word, leaving her to wonder why she tries at all with this unforgiving man. The falling snow covers his tracks on her roof, and when she dreams, it's of his black form against the whiteness.

The holiday party is a success. There are dreidels and Christmas trees and she kisses Jason (the cute security guard) under the mistletoe. Unfortunately, the older librarian who still makes snide remarks when she thinks Barbara is out of earshot catches them. She makes a rude remark about the generosity of their donor and two-timing him which sends Barbara out into the cold air in order to calm down.

She chokes back the tears that threaten to overwhelm her, angry that Jason hasn't followed her out and looking for a familiar shape in the shadows. She's surprised when she realizes she expected him to save her from even the most trivial things that really shouldn't matter.

She wipes her eyes, hoping her mascara didn't run, before she returns to the party. It is Christmas time and there is free champagne. It doesn't matter, and it shouldn't. She will be fine (she doesn't need him).

…

He finishes the book from the library about law enforcement on the frontier (to his credit, it did look interesting). He's mildly surprised that the comparison she drew between his own work and vigilantes is more than sufficient – vigilantism was a guttural response to a heinous crime. Vigilantes, according to the book, operated coolly, deliberately, swiftly and left the community better for their work, not tied up in the morass of law enforcement red tape. He wonders if he really is making things easier or better by his actions, but thinks it's just the late hour (it's almost sunrise) and the whiskey (it's Christmas Eve and he hates holidays).  
The book in question is Taming the Elephant: Politics, Government, and Law in Pioneer Californiaby John F. Burns and Richard J. Orsi (2003). Bruce's thoughts are paraphrased from page 28.


	4. 4

Christmas Day breaks with a massacre at an urgent care clinic. The victims laugh themselves to death, their mouths twisted in a cruel smile that haunts him. Twenty-five dead, their bodies full of the toxin that Lucius had told him was a possibility.

Twenty-five.

"It's not your fault," Barbara tells him that night. He goes to her because he doesn't know what else to do. He thought about Rachel for a moment, but their last meeting at a cocktail party was brief and unmemorable, and she has made it clear she wants nothing to do with him. He knows that Christmas is already disrupted in the Gordon household, and that she has spent the day with her aunt and baby cousin worrying over her uncle. This is a selfish move but she's the only one that understands.

("I was thinking about you," she says when he appears on the fire escape outside apartment. "I was worried," she says as she lets him in.)

"I know," he says, head in his hands. "But that doesn't make it any easier."

"Do you think he chose the shelter and the victims because of the date and the meaning behind it?" she asks. She gives him something to drink – green tea, he recognizes – and sits next to him on her futon. He feels so big, a hulking figure in the small apartment, but her presence steadies him.

"Yes," he says.

"So we're dealing with someone who creates the persona of a fool, and whose attacks are probably hilarious to him, but totally gruesome to us."

He nods, then smiles. "We?"

"Oh, totally," she says, nudging his shoulder with her own. "I'm in this for the long haul, buddy."

He doesn't know how to react – no one ever touches Batman willingly - so he just says, "I need you to look through newspapers for any other criminal activity that was ignored because it was considered tame, but could possibly be a bad joke."

"Okay. Anything else?" she asks.

"No – not yet. I need to think about this, and you've got New Years in Metropolis," he says.

"Consider that canceled," she says. "You need me more than they do."

"Go to Metropolis," he says He'd feel guilty if he took her holiday away, after asking so much already. "I can handle things until you get back."

…

Harvey Dent has a New Year's party, and Bruce shows up alone. He's gotten bored with models and doesn't want to move onto actresses, and besides, he's sure there will be plenty of attractive women at the party that he can flirt with to keep up his playboy reputation.

Rachel is there, not surprisingly, and avoids him for the most part. He wonders what he's done wrong but can only think of the massacre, and the countless newspaper articles on his exploits and the source of her disapproval is obvious. It hurts, because she's the only one that knows both sides of him and her rejection is painful and complete, because no other woman will ever know him that well.

He talks to Harvey, and the outgoing mayor and the incoming mayor before trying to catch Rachel alone (this is, of course, after several drinks). She gives him a hug and they talk about Alfred (it's so easy to have one thing in common) yet when Rachel, drunk on champagne, kisses him at midnight, he is surprised that he does not respond. Instead, he just wonders at what point he stopped wanting this and what exactly he wants now.

Rachel is not offended, not nearly as much as she could be, and slips away from him into the masses of people. There are single women, married women, all who want to sink their claws into him and he thinks for a moment of green eyes and a calm smile and traits preferable to peroxide-blonde extensions and manicured talons.

By one-thirty, the party is still going strong and he considers calling Barbara to wish her a Happy New Year. He actually goes so far as to take the phone out, find a secure location, and he almost dials but he can't. There are walls and lines and boundaries that he cannot cross because, as Batman, he cannot have emotional attachments (which means, as Bruce, he can only have a few). He might have crossed that line less than a week ago, but that was a moment of weakness and he doubts she judges him because of it.

"New girlfriend?"

He turns to find Rachel leaning drunkenly against the doorway, and he tries to smile. He's also had a few drinks (hence the almost-slip) and he shakes his head.

"No. Just checking voicemail, but it doesn't really matter. The messages will still be there in the morning," he says, closing his phone and tucking it back into his jacket pocket. It doesn't matter he thinks and it shouldn't because she will be there in two days when they meet again, and he will not be nearly so sentimental.

…

"How was Metropolis?" he asks. She did not expect him to announce his presence with that sort of question.

"I ended up not going," she says. "My uncle had to put in overtime and my aunt couldn't get off work, so I babysat my cousin. My friends came here and we went to some party at the Hotel Gotham."

He nods and so she fills up the space between them with words. "How was your New Years? Please tell me you did something fun," she says.

"Does catching a carjacker fit your definition of 'fun'?" he asks, and she thinks he's smirking.

"For you it does," she says. "So, I went through the newspapers and found one potentially-problematic article. It's this suicide-pact of an elderly couple – the wife was dying of cancer, they both took lethal combinations of prescription drugs, ended up dying in bed together. Thing is, they both had smiles on their faces. Now, I'm not one to knock the power of love – "

"You think he tested it on innocent victims," he says. Barbara nods.

"Exactly. I think that the clinic was the second hit. I think that, in order to dose that many people, whoever this criminal is wanted to test his toxin, and what better way than to pick a location where people go to be cured, with the supplies to 'treat' them?" she says.

"I think that's a good point. But I don't think he'll do anything like this again," he tells her. "He'll use the toxin, but not this way."

"Probably not. At some point he's going to need to show himself, especially if he's crafted the fool character we think he has."

She watches him as he looks out at the city. "Do you think you know who it is? I mean, you have to have an idea, right?"

"There are several Arkham inmates who have not been found," he says. "Only one of which displayed any real psychotic behavior prior to the hallucinogenic toxin Crane put in the water supply."

This is the first time he's ever spoken so explicitly with her about what happened, and it's unsettling. She's been doing this research but never has she put two and two together and thought of the human being that actually commits these horrible crimes. A person she could have passed on the street, or seen in the library. Anyone could kill all those people, could think it was funny, and it hits her like a punch in the gut. She shivers.

"Cold?" he asks. She shakes her head.

"Frightened, actually," she says. "Terrified that we are capable of such horrific actions."

"Not all of us," he says and she smiles.

"Not you. You protect us." And she hopes he never stops, because she sleeps easier at night knowing that he is out there watching over them.

"I do what I can," he tells her.

"You do more than the rest of us," she replies.

"I couldn't do it alone," he says. "Thank you for all that you've done."

"No problem. Anything else at the moment?" she asks. He shakes his head.

"I'll let you know," he tells her before heading to the roof's edge. She considers calling him back, teasing him with a question, anything to get him to stay long enough that she can figure out something more about him. He's still a gigantic mystery but she's not trying to dig deep to find out his identity. Some days, all she wants to know is that he's human, and worried about this city just like the rest of them.

…

The snow begins to melt, and the rebuilding process speeds up, and Bruce is grateful. He wants to live at home once more, and while the Cave is convenient, and his, it's still a Cave. Hotel Gotham is a hotel and not at all homey, and photographers seem to linger at the door (he's glad they don't want to come out to watch him rebuild his house – yet).

He has his own office at Wayne Enterprises, something he is grateful to Lucius for though the man always likes to remind him that all of this is his anyway. He doesn't do much work – what can he do, really, when everything is done for him – but he's there and that matters. Lucius gives him jobs but he doesn't have a title and they'll work on that in the future. Until then, both men are merely content that the company is doing fine at the moment. Besides, everyone knows Bruce is just looking for ways to spend the long hours of the day.

It's not that Bruce is uncomfortable with his money, it's just that it's almost silly to worry so much about it. Sometimes it's convenient, and sometimes it's not, and besides, it allowed him to make that donation to the library (Barbara has never said anything to him about the scarcity of their funds, but he has noticed it himself).

The book on vigilantes is at least three weeks overdue, and he sends his assistant to return it for him.

…

On the days when they don't meet it becomes apparent how emotionally invested she is in all of this – and in him. She feels like she is idling, waiting for a phone call or a note or just something from him that will kick her into high gear. Lulls between assignments are anywhere from one day to four, depending on what he needs, but it's been three months of this sort of work and she's acclimated her life to being on call.

She goes to dinner at her aunt and uncle's, works out at the gym near her apartment, calls friends in Metropolis and goes out with friends in Gotham. She goes grocery shopping or reads magazines in a book store or does anything to fill up the time because if she doesn't, she might actually start to miss him and their little talks and that would be horrible because she doesn't know him at all. He is just an average-sized man in a bat costume who says little but his actions speak louder than his words, anyway.

It's not like she has a lot of free time, anyway. She still updates her site once a week, cataloging Batman's many deeds but this time with a sense of pride since she's helped out. She saves articles relating to the new criminal for future reference. He never asked her to stop updating so she keeps doing it because it keeps her sane.

She tries not to worry about him, if he will get hurt or die, because the thought chills her to the core and she may cry, which means she really does care about her anonymous superhero and that could be a very bad thing.


	5. 5

5.

February dawns dark and gloomy, and as Barbara walks from the train to work in a light drizzle, she thinks that she misses the snow.

There is a letter waiting her from Wayne Enterprises, and she is surprised to find that it's from Bruce Wayne himself. It is a job listing, and a brief note on monogrammed paper: _I think you should apply. You're overqualified for your current job. – Bruce_

"First names, huh?" she asks, putting the letter down. She decides she will think about it later, after she handles more important matters. There is a quarterly report to read and probably a few email messages in need of a response, both professional and otherwise. She turns on her computer and starts her day.

The note, while buried under other paperwork, remains on her mind.

…

Less than a week into February, there is a robbery at Gotham National Bank. The perpetrators get away with several thousand dollars in cash but leave one of their own behind. It is the first time that the police get an idea of who they're dealing with.

The man is an ordinary street thug, almost nineteen, dressed in black. It's obvious who he works for - the grin on his face is gruesome and unnatural. It's unclear whether he dosed himself, or if his colleagues dosed him when he lagged behind. He laughs himself into a stupor and slips into unconsciousness before the ambulance arrives.

"They must have some loyalty," Barbara says when he tells her.

Loyalty is a loaded word for him. He finds himself drawn to this rooftop like a magnet more often than not, even when he's not asking anything of her (yet another thing which is becoming more common these days). With actual activity and fewer clues, he doesn't need her to research like he did in the beginning but he wonders if he ever really need her to begin with, or if he was just trying to control someone who could expose him. He knows she updates her site regularly with superficial information, and he is grateful that she is throwing others off his trail but the loyalty she shows to him - and, in turn, he shows to her by keeping her informed - are not similar and probably unbalanced.

He cannot deny that he's grown fond of Barbara, the bright and steady presence in his blurry world. Her faith in him mirrors that of her uncle and sometimes he wishes he could be the person she believes him to be. He'll never stop hoping that his actions will create the world where good people like the Gordons can live without fear.

"Do you have any connections to the black market?" he asks seriously. She laughs, surprised by his question.

"Of course, I mean, I got my kidney that way last year," she deadpans, then smiles. "No, I don't. You think some big purchase is going down?"

"Could be," Bruce tells her. "They took all the cash from the vault."

"But it could be anything else," she says. "Paying someone off. Buying a car. Maybe they're just short on cash?"

He nods. She's right – it could be anything.

"Is there anything you need me to do?" she asks. "I don't feel very helpful these days."

"You are," he tells her. "It helps to talk things out."

"At least I'm doing something." She looks away, over the city. "It just feels like I'm spinning my wheels. It's been at least five days since you had me do any sort of research."

"I imagine you have other things to do," he tells her. "You have a job and a life besides this."

"A boring one," she mutters. "I have a question for you."

"What is it?" he asks.

"Did you pick me because of the site or my connections at the library?"

"Both, actually," he says, startled that she's come to a similar conclusion.

"What if I switched jobs?" she asks. Now it's obvious why she asked this, but feigns confusion.

"I think Bruce Wayne sees me as some sort of personal charity case – he sent me some information last week on a job at Wayne Enterprises, some librarian-archivist type thing. Sounds kinda boring, actually, but the pay would be much more than what I currently make." She looks around the rooftop, with the scattered beer cans and glass bottles. "I could finally get a better place."

"A safer place," he says.

She laughs. "Concerned for my safety?"

He's unsure what to respond but she knows his reactions well enough to keep talking and say, "That brings the number to – oh, maybe two."

"Your uncle."

"He had cops tailing me when I went on dates in high school," she says. He can't help but smile, feeling sorry for the young men who risked taking Barbara out.

"Are you going to apply for the job?" he asks, trying not to sound too curious.

"Probably not," she says. "It would be nice to have the money, but money can't buy happiness." She shrugs and looks away from him, out over the city. "I may change my mind, but right now it's been a long day. I don't even know why I'm telling you the sorry details of my life, actually."

He says nothing, though he'd like to learn more about her opinions on Bruce Wayne either good or bad, but now is not the time. She looks tired, and he can feel weariness in his bones (he still has a long night ahead of him).

"My uncle would know more about the black market," she tells him.

"I'll ask next time I see him," he says.

"Be safe," she tells him like she always does when he leaves, and it's a small comfort he'll take on yet another rainy February night.

…

"You still have a non-existent social life," Alfred tells him one day. "You might want to look into that."

"Polo will start again soon," he responds. He doesn't mind the sport, now that he knows how to play (there's something satisfying about whacking balls with mallets - ) and he's thinking of renovating his grandparent's summer house on the coast which should be a fulltime job. He also goes out to dinner with some members of the board of Wayne Enterprises once or twice a month, and has a standing reservation at numerous restaurants with his parents' old friends. He gets out just fine.

"It's been quite a while since you took a young lady out to dinner," Alfred points out. "Perhaps Miss Dawes?"

"We're not that close anymore," he says. He can't even remember the last time he voluntarily called her, or she called him.

"What about the young lady from the library? Miss Gordon?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Right. She seems to think that I've made her my latest charity project," he says.

"Well, are you making her a charity project?"

"No," he says defensively. "I sent her information about a job. I thought it would be nice to have her work for Wayne Enterprises. Keep it all under one roof."

"And she didn't see it that way?"

"Not so much."

"Well," Alfred says after some time, "maybe that young actress – "

"That just won the award?"

"Precisely. I'm sure she wouldn't mind."

"Maybe," Bruce responds. He can't help but think that maybe Barbara wouldn't be such a bad option, though (at the very least, she'd have something interesting to say) but he can't: Barbara remains at the periphery of his life as Bruce Wayne, and the center of his life as Batman, and that is how it probably should be.

…

It is Valentine's Day, and she is alone for the third year in a row. She had a steady boyfriend in college but they broke up just after the fourteenth (before he went off to med school and left her to finish her degree) and like every good single woman, she's a bit jaded about the holiday.

Two of her younger co-workers – barely out of college – decide they want to go to a singles-only party a the Hotel Gotham's ballroom, and so she dresses in ridiculously high heels and a low cut black dress. She drinks free champagne and kisses some law student on the cheek and gives her number to at least three boys. She dances and has a good time and it's not until they stumbled out of the ballroom at 2 a.m. that things get weird.

"Barbara?" someone says, and she turns, not entirely sure who's looking for her. It's only when she finds the person that she wishes she were a bit more sober.

"Bruce!" she calls out with false bravado, and her co-workers dissolve into fits of laughter. "You totally missed the party!"

She's babbling (why would Bruce Wayne be at some ridiculous party?) but she's distracted by the pretty blonde at his side and she isn't sure she can meet his eyes. She's known he's notorious for dating models and actresses and she recognizes the woman on his arm as someone she has admired from magazine pages. Through the alcohol daze she can still tell the woman is not wearing a three-year old dress and almost-outdated earrings and the sharp contrast between her own life and his makes her shaky.

It is a bit gratifying that the woman looks very unattractive when she's pouting and pulling on Wayne's arm like an impatient four-year-old, though.

"I did? Well that's too bad," he says and she can almost hear his practiced smile. She finally does look up but he's not looking at her – well, not at her face but rather appreciating other parts of her. She's not sure if she should act scandalized or blush, and settles for flight instead of fight despite being blinded by a dozen flash bulbs that seem to appear out of nowhere.

"Well, have a nice evening," she says, and thankfully her friend grabs her hand as they make a mad dash to the waiting cab, collapsing into fits of giggles.

"That was that actress –"

"Her boobs were so fake –"

"He was admiring your assets, Babs –"

"She was totally jealous."

Her friends spit out incomplete phrases at a rapid pace and while she cannot even keep up with what they're saying, she dreads what she'll have to deal with Monday morning.

She rests her forehead on the taxi window, feeling the cool glass against her flushed face and wonders if he really was checking her out. The thought makes her stomach flip but she knows that it doesn't matter since tomorrow he will wake up in bed with a pretty actress and she will be alone.

It's almost fitting that she gets the call from the only man in her life around four in the morning. She has enough sense to grab some bottled water before she goes to the rooftop, where he's already waiting for her. He's agitated, pacing, and she gets very nervous.

"What's wrong?" she asks, leaning against the door.

"I just met our man," he says in a low voice.

The Bat Signal, as the newspapers call it, was on when she arrived home but, apparently, it wasn't her uncle with news; it was their man, waiting on the rooftop to have a discussion with Batman.

He describes the criminal: scarred face, white makeup, insanity tempered with brilliance. But how do the pieces fit?

"I'm glad you're not hurt," she tells him.

"I don't think he wants to hurt me – yet," he admits, and fear settles into her stomach.

"Is there anything I can do?"

"Not yet. I still need to process all of this, but I thought you'd like to know."

"Thanks for keeping me informed. I'm glad you're all right," she repeats.

"So am I,"

"But I mean it. I'd be really sad if something happened to you." She wants to slam her hand over her mouth because she's well past ridiculous right now. She wonders if telling him she's been drinking will solve any problems, but refrains from that.

"Thank you," he says after a moment.

When he leaves her, she can't fall asleep and instead watches the sun rise from her bed. She thinks about Bruce Wayne and Batman and her own embarrassment because tonight has been a comedy of errors, and it will only get worse in the morning.

…

Alfred is grateful for the nights when Bruce returns home without a scratch on him. They are few and far between but when they happen he sleeps easy.

Tonight is not such a night – the Bat Signal went on late at night, and Bruce does not return until sunrise. Instead of immediately collapsing, he sits unmoving on the balcony and watches the sun bathe the city in pink light.

Alfred clears his throat. "Sir, is there anything you need?"

"Has the paper come yet?" Bruce asks.

"Yes," he says. "Batman is noticeably absent, but Bruce Wayne made page six."

Bruce reaches for the paper, skipping to the gossip page. Craning his neck, Alfred sees a grainy picture of Bruce, his date, and another girl. The caption reads Playboy ogling replacement for starlet girlfriend. Naughty Bruce – didn't you learn any manners? Bruce swears under his breath.

"Something wrong, Master Wayne?"

"I really didn't miss gossip writers," Bruce says. "They make something out of nothing."

"I take it that you're frustrated by the photo?" Alfred asks.

"That would be an understatement."

"Is it because of your mystery woman?"

"This," Bruce says, folding the paper over, "is the ubiquitous Barbara Gordon."

"Your Miss Gordon?" Alfred asks, surprised. "From the library?"

"I don't think she'd take too kindly to being claimed by me," Bruce says.

Alfred studies the paper carefully. A dozen retorts come to mind but Bruce speaks first.

"I think it's safe to say I moved from 'charitable benefactor' to 'lecherous bastard'," he says, folding up the paper and putting it on a nearby table. "Please arrange to have some flowers sent to Ms. Gordon's apartment with a note apologizing for the newspaper coverage, Alfred."

"Are you honestly sorry, sir?" Alfred says finally.

"Sorry for what?"

"For admiring the scenery?"

Bruce smiles for the first time that morning. "Not really."

"In that case, I'll call the florist as soon as possible."

Bruce stands, stretches, and leaves the balcony, following Alfred into the main room.

"She was at a singles party the hotel threw," he tells him. "Do we have anymore orange juice?"

"In the refrigerator, sir," Alfred says, making to go get it but Bruce shakes his head.

"I can do it." Bruce pours himself a glass and leans on the kitchen counter. Alfred can tell he wishes to talk, but is unsure of what to say to encourage him.

"The reason I came home so late," Bruce finally says, "is because I went to see her."

"You visited Miss Gordon late last night?"

"As Batman. Not as Bruce. I can't see her as Bruce."

"And so you rang her?"

"After I left the crime scene." Bruce takes a sip of his drink. "I actually stop by several times a week."

"That's perfectly logical if you have clues for her to look at."

"I don't. I haven't given her an assignment in at least a week." Bruce pauses. "I stop by to talk because I want to talk to her – because talking to her makes things better, or something like that."

Alfred says nothing. He's surprised by this announcement, because Bruce never really discusses his feelings and after Rachel did whatever she did, he had shied away from dating in general and relationships in particular. Alfred wonders what to make of this strange effect that Miss Gordon has on his employer, because Bruce is definitely vulnerable where she is concerned.

"You don't have many close friends or relationships with women that last longer than twelve hours except for your relationship with Miss Gordon – "

"Which is purely work-related."

"Doesn't seem to be the case after last night, sir."

"You can't always trust what you read in the papers, Alfred," Bruce remarks.

Alfred smiles. "Of course, sir."

"I'm going to get some sleep," Bruce tells him, finishing off the orange juice and putting the glass on the counter. "Good night, Alfred."

"Good morning, sir," he replies. Once Bruce is in his bedroom, Alfred returns to the patio and looks at the photo carefully. He may have no idea what is running through Bruce's head – it's safer that he doesn't even try to understand that man – but he (and Batman) value this girl tremendously.

He rings the florist and has the best arrangement sent to Miss Gordon's apartment (which is in a dodgy part of town, as it is). He considers picking them up himself and delivering them to her, but that would negate any chance of her having to thank Bruce personally and he's not too old to stir up some trouble.

…

He finds sleep fleeting and unsatisfactory. When he closes his eyes, he sees white cake makeup covering a face full of scars, pushing it away with the thought of the curve of her neck and the way her hair brushes against her shoulder as she turns away from him.

The man was nothing like they expected him to be and everything that they feared: a sadistic sociopath taking joy in other's pain. He remembers the anger which flooded his veins when he met him, and the fear he tried to hide as the man spoke. This man, their Joker, oscillated between cool and calculated and hysteric, and for the first time in a long time Bruce worries about his city. Battling street gangs and misguided idealists with obvious weaknesses are one thing. Battling the truly insane is something totally different.

 _I'd be really sad if something happened to you._

He punches the pillow next to him in frustration. Seeing her at the hotel has complicated everything tremendously and he's not sure what he thinks about all of this. His brain feels like a tangled ball of confusion that he can't even begin to unravel, certainly not today.

But one fact remains: that everyone he cares about gets hurt one way or another. His parents murdered, Rachel betrayed, Alfred's home burned and his precious Rolls damaged in the fire that was an act of revenge against Bruce. He does not want Barbara to be affected, but he wonders if it's not too late.

He tries once more to fall asleep. He needs his strength - he has a feeling that Alfred will be a pain in the ass about her for a long time now that he's seen her picture.


	6. 6

Salvatore Maroni waits a little less than six months before he stages a coup that topples the remaining crime families (those that have not been prosecuted by Dent) and installs himself as the new lord of the underworld. He is a recent transplant from Detroit, taking advantage of the chaos after Falcone and the disaster in the Narrows. He picks up exactly where Falcone left off – drugs and prostitution, corruption in the police force. It's not surprising that the dirty cops take oaths of allegiance before the dust settles.

This brings the number of threats to two and Bruce honestly wonders if one is more dangerous than the other. A new crime lord means new criminals, and a city that could never really be safe.

On the bright side, there's now a legitimate reason to visit Barbara. Maroni's various nightly activities always make it into the newspaper, and so he has her scan them every day to see what is obviously his doing (murder of a lawyer) and the things less obvious (car accident involving an activist concerned with the lack of growth in the Narrows). He reads the papers too, but there are other things to look at – quarterly reports from Wayne Enterprises, new business proposals, philanthropic ventures and charity dinners.

Bruce smiles for the cameras, shakes hands with the wealthy and influential of Gotham, and thinks of how many times he could buy and sell each of them (it's a fun pastime during these dull events). He brings a date occasionally, but finds he'd rather be in and out as quickly as possible – he has other obligations, and the champagne always tastes too bitter in his mouth.

Thankfully, at the end of the day (or, rather, the beginning of the next), there is always a young woman with a smile waiting for him on a rooftop, and that makes the bitterness easier to swallow.

…

It is the very end of February when she comes to the sad realization that she is no longer needed and may never have been needed to begin with.

 _He_ gives her busy work – looking up newspaper articles, searching journal databases – and while she's compiled an extensive dossier on Maroni that could and probably does beat what the police have, it's unsatisfying. She thinks part of it is because, now that the criminals are rearing their heads, speculation isn't as desirable but she can't help but feel, deep in her bones, he was just trying to rein her in all the time. He should know by now, though, that she's not going to sell him out for anything. He doesn't need to show up all the time anyway (but his presence is comforting, regardless).

With the reemergence of organized crime, he's stretched too thin and sometimes goes into a daze when she talks to him. It worries her, because someone who's single-handedly trying to bring back justice cannot afford to let his guard down.

"Hey," she says softly, and he snaps out of whatever trance he's been in. "Something wrong?"

"Moreso than usual?" he responds, and she smiles. He's back.

"I'm just saying that Maroni's vicious," she says. "I heard Dent's got a security team for him and his assistant DAs now, but how many attorneys can a crime lord kill before things get out of hand?"

"I don't want to know," he replies. "How are you doing?"

"For the moment, I'm fine."

"How's work?" he asks. It's these questions that stray outside their normal lines of communication that confuse her, and have been confusing her for the past several weeks.

"Book week starts in a few days, and our women's history month display looks like shit so I have to rework it," she tells him. She doesn't talk about her personal life, because it's inconsequential even to her. One of the guys she met a little less than two weeks ago at the Valentine's day shindig called her but that's when things were picking up and she couldn't say yes to anything more than coffee, which she ended up canceling when he called her.

She's also still mulling over the job at Wayne Enterprises, which doesn't close until mid-March but it's a bit awkward at the moment. The flowers that Bruce Wayne sent as an apology have long since died but she still blushes at the thought – it's been a long time since she's received flowers, that's all. She hasn't sent him a 'thank you' note because what exactly do you write to someone whose assistants are the ones that make these decisions and who must be preparing for the polo season? The answer is she doesn't know, and so she does nothing.

"Sounds busy."

"It is. How's your life?"

"It goes," he says quietly.

"Save anyone tonight?"

"Yeah," he tells her. "Some kids. Car was overheating."

"So epic."

"It was in the Narrows."

"Jesus. You're braver than half the force."

They stall like that for a moment, and she kicks a beer can away. She's got her assignment, and her other work ahead of her, and it's going to be a long March.

"I'll try to talk to Dent, see what he can tell me," he says after some time.

"Good plan," she tells him. "Be safe."

"You know me," he says.

"Not really," she says honestly. "But that doesn't really matter, does it?"

He stops, and she just repeats her earlier comment. "Just - be safe."

"I will," he responds. She wonders if he means it.

…

It is Rachel who takes the bull by the horns and calls Bruce one day.

"We haven't done lunch in a while," she says. She can hear his smile over the phone.

"No, we haven't. I've been busy with the house."

"I know, but you should still have lunch with me tomorrow."

"Of course," he agrees easily, and she wonders why they haven't spoken since the New Year's party and – oh – she vaguely recalls kissing him. She wonders if that's why he's avoiding her.

When the security guard at the door verifies that it's Bruce Wayne, and she climbs into the back of the Town Car, she knows it was never about a silly kiss. He looks tired and bruised and it's more than polo (it always is).

"Hello Alfred," she calls to the butler, her old friend.

"Good afternoon, Ms. Dawes," Alfred replies, and they engage in some polite conversation on the way to the restaurant. Bruce says nothing, and it's not until they arrive that she realizes he's nodded off.

"Wake up," she says, nudging him, and his eyes snap open.

"Sorry," he says. "All those late night parties – you know how it goes."

Lunch is nice, which is saying something. He tells her all about the rebuilding of the house, the progress that's being made, the redecorating of the East Wing and she listens in rapt attention because she always loved that house. She tells him about how busy things are (which he has to already know, really) and is careful about what she says. It is never safe anymore.

In the Town Car, he asks her about security measures taken to ensure the safety of the DAs. She tells him it's under control, and he sighs. When he does, she realizes all they've talked about are superficial things, nothing that really matters. This is not how they used to be. This is not how they should be.

"When did we become like this?" Rachel asks Bruce, who remains silent. "When did we become two ships passing in the night?"

"That was poetic," he says in response.

"Bruce –"

"You don't approve of me," he says, and the tension is obvious on his features. "You don't approve of how I spend my days or my nights, so what does it matter?"

"Do you really mean that?" she asks. "Do I mean so little that you can just forget me – ignore me because I don't particularly like how you live your life?"

"No, Rachel – you know that," he says. "But it's easier for me to live it when you're not there to disapprove."

She doesn't know what to say. She knows the good deeds that Batman does, and she knows the role Bruce plays in public, complete with pretty girls and fast cars. Neither allows much time for personal relationships, and living two lives causes damage, hidden under his Italian suits and obvious in his eyes. She wonders if this was what he was asking for when he started.

"Are you happy?" she asks him. "Does your life make you happy?"

He looks out the car window for a moment, and she thinks there's a smile ghosting on the corners of his mouth. "Sometimes, I am. But most of the time, I'm just lonely."

"I'm here for you, Bruce," she says, offering more of herself than she knows possible with everything that's going on. "You know that."

"I know," he says.

The space between them in the back seat is inches but feels like miles on the never-ending drive back to her office. When she returns to her desk, she wonders about those spare moments that make Bruce happy, and hopes that beating the shit out of some bad-ass hooligan isn't one of them.

…

Barbara Gordon has become the subject of much discussion in the household – at least, ever since Alfred learned that Bruce visited a young, attractive librarian instead of an old spinster. Almost daily, the older man inquires about as to how she is doing and occasionally he'll ask more information about her, about her education or her family and Bruce doesn't really know what to tell him to shut him up. Whatever he does say manages to pacify Alfred, at least until another late night when the cycle starts all over again.

He's not sure what he thinks about her, though he does think about her a lot. He likes being around her because she always makes him feel at ease, even in full Kevlar body armor. He finds it funny that she's not intimidated by Batman, but blushes around Bruce Wayne. And he really likes it when she smiles because there's something about her eyes and it's just…nice. Well, the whole package is nice (so nice in fact that sometimes he forgets why he went to see her in the first place).

He thinks about asking her out to lunch, or dinner. He blames Alfred for inspiring this train of thought, and himself for pursuing it, but there are days when he's tired of board meetings and socialites and wants nothing more than to take her out for a burger where they can sit at a small booth in the back and make fun of the other patrons (he has a feeling she'd be good at that). Or maybe just take her someplace where they could talk. He just wants to have a real conversation for the first time in ages and he knows Barbara would be the only person he could have that with.

The only problem, though, is he'd have to trust his secret to her in order for that conversation to take place, and he's not entirely sure he's ready to do that – at least, not yet.

…

"You look tired," Barbara tells her uncle one night, after dinner. She's taken to stopping by several nights a week, knowing it calms her aunt to have someone else at home when her uncle works late. It is not an altruistic move, though – Barbara doesn't like the darkness of her apartment anymore, and sometimes craves talking to someone whose face she can see.

"It's been rough," Jim Gordon replies, running a hand over his face. "Somedays I think there'll never be enough coffee to keep me going."

"I thought it was the pursuit of justice that drove you," she says, taking a sip of her coffee. "You and the Bat Man."

"He's far more dedicated than me," her uncle tells her. "He's got all this information about Maroni - more than we've given him. He's created a more in-depth profile than our own men. I'm convinced the guy has no other life than to fight crime in this city."

She tries not to laugh (or burn her tongue) so she swallows and puts the cup down. "Really now."

"Really. You still working on that website?"

"Nah, not so much anymore," she admits. "Busy at work."

"You – the girl who wanted to know so much about him at one point in time – "

"Not as big a deal anymore," she tells him. "Let's not talk about him tonight." Let's not talk about him anymore she thinks, because sometimes she wants to forget about all of this and just be here, with her family, for a moment.

…

One night, Barbara asks him why he does what he does every night.

"Did you just wake up one morning angrier than usual?" she asks. A smile plays at the corner of her mouth and he's distracted by it for a second before he thinks about her question. When did he know? When he was eight and lost his parents? That moment at Falcone's club? Training with Raz Al-Ghul? Or did he just wake up one morning and decide today was the day?

"A gradual process," he tells her. "How did you know you wanted to be a librarian?"

"You're evading the question," she tells him. "My aunt thought it would be a good idea because she read an article on libraries and benefits. And Met U had a one-year MLS degree program so I did that. I actually did interdisciplinary studies, so I don't really have a solid undergraduate degree. I did a bit of everything."

"Did you have any social life in college?" he asks jokingly, and she smiles.

"I was in a sorority," she says, "with the rest of the geeky girls. And I had a boyfriend, so yes, I had a good time in college."

He remembers the Greeks in college, the girls with pearls and matching tans and the guys who wouldn't look twice at him outside of a social function, because having the Wayne heir in their house would be a status symbol. He wonders if they would have gotten along in college, Barbara and him, and he thinks they would probably never have met – and he wouldn't want her to know the bitter college Bruce anyway.

"Do you like your job?"

"Yes. It makes me happy. And you're still evading the question."

He sighs. "I grew angry with this city and the corruption."

"And you thought you could do better than the police?"

He nods.

She laughs. "You're right, though – you are doing better."

"But Maroni, and this Joker –"

"You can't win every battle. I think you know that better than most," she says softly. "You do what you can with what you have. And you have body armor and a neat hang-glider thing built into your suit."

He smiles, because she always says things like that – little things that make him feel better –but he now that he thinks about it, he's not sure he ever says nice things to her in return.

"Thanks," he replies, at a loss for words.

She smiles again, and that small knot that's been forming in his stomach since that night at the hotel grows tighter.

"I think you were right about Miss Gordon," he tells Alfred when he returns from Barbara's rooftop.

"You mean that she's far too intelligent to be working for you without pay?" Alfred asks.

"No. About maybe asking her to dinner."

"And what exactly do you intend to do about it, sir?" Alfred responds.

"Nothing," he responds. What can he do? She is practically his employee, and he is supposed to be the Bat Man.

"Maybe you should ask the lady to dinner."

"Or maybe I should forget any of this," he says, but the thought of that makes his stomach churn.

"What harm would taking her to dinner do?"

"I work nights," he says plainly.

"You seem to have forgotten, sir," Alfred reminds him, "so does she."

…

She hears of Bruce Wayne's arrival at the library before she actually sees him. There are whispers spread around before her colleague Colleen rushes up and says, "He's flirting with Gertude!" the senior librarian who likes to make Barbara's life hell in more ways than one. Everyone knows where his final destination will be, and Barbara's grateful she's dressed cute (cocktails at the Lounge after work to celebrate the end of Book Week).

"Hello," he says, and she glances up.

"Good morning," she says, pleased with herself that she didn't crumble though there are butterflies in her stomach.

"Did you get the flowers?" he asks, leaning up against the desk she's stationed at, so incredibly close she swears she can count the fibers in his Italian suit. Instinctively she leans back but not before she catches a whiff of his cologne and he smells so good she almost swoons right then and there (she is ashamed that she is so pathetically enamored with him).

"I did. I'm sorry I didn't send a note – I've been busy," she says, piling up the papers on the counter to keep busy. It's hard to make eye contact with him but she tries. He, on the other hand, doesn't take his eyes off of her.

"I understand," he says, picking up a pen from the other side of the counter and playing with it. He traces a few small circles on the faux-marble top and then says "I was hoping you'd come to lunch with me so we can discuss this job you really should apply for."

But she can't. Not with the others watching, not with everyone's attention focused on her. After her appearance in the paper, she's become the topic of discussion again and she doesn't want to be known for that.

"It's not a good idea to talk about that here," she tells him.

"Which is why you should come to lunch with me," he says, with a suaveness that she's sure has been practiced on many other women besides herself. Really Barbara, she thinks, what does he want with someone like you anyway?

"I can't," she tells him. "I shouldn't."

"Why not?" he asks.

"I have work to do," she says. "We've got a new display going up this afternoon." She takes a pad of paper and writes I can't leave here with you on it, sliding it across the counter for him to see.

"You can do that after lunch." He takes the pen from her and writes So meet me for dinner.

"Some of us have jobs," she says softly.

"True, and you do yours better than others. He writes Please?

She thinks for a moment. Billionaires don't ask librarians on dates, and maybe he really is in need of a trained archivist. She can survive one night going to dinner with Bruce Wayne. He'll probably prove to be boring and break all her perceptions of his charm and demeanor but that's okay. She needs them broken anyway.

 _I get off work at 5_

Besides, which of her friends has ever gone on a business dinner with a billionaire?

The smile on his face is genuine, not practiced, and she can't help but smile as well. She needs this little infatuation to end because honestly, nothing will come of this and she will not take the job he offers, despite all his charm. She likes her job here, and does not want to leave.

 _I'll be waiting at the coffee shop across the street_

"I'm sorry," she says. "They have shit coffee."

"Well then don't keep me waiting too long," he says, adding a practiced wink and she can't help but giggle. She feels foolish but happy, for a moment, because it's been a while since a cute guy's taken her to dinner.

He leaves, and she is surrounded by what she swears must be every female in the library, employee and patron alike. The questions swarm her and she can't really answer any of them because she still feels giddy and overwhelmed. She goes to work on the exhibit and finds herself staring in the reflective glass of the case, wondering what exactly happened to her life to lead her here.

…

He has been killing time since she agreed to have dinner with him: thumbing through magazines at a chain bookstore uptown, walking through the park, making and canceling reservations to a dozen fine restaurants (he doesn't know what will be good enough and doesn't want to seem foolish by taking her somewhere too snobbish) and now is drinking horrible coffee and waiting for her.

What it lacks in edible food and beverages the coffee shop makes up for in the view – he can easily see the library, so he will know when she's leaving and can call Alfred (who's idling around the corner) to come pick them up in what he hopes will be a slightly impressive gesture.

Just before five, she exits the building with a friend, and he's distracted for a moment (did her hair always have that reddish tint?) but then there is a flurry of activity and the friend is screaming and an unmarked white van speeds away (why did he not notice that van earlier?) and he is out of his chair and into the street, staring at the getaway car.

Barbara is nowhere to be seen.

As he hurries to Alfred and the waiting car, his stomach churns and his heart races and he knows what he has to do, just not what has already been done.


	7. 7

7.

"It's not everyday you're witness to something like this," Harvey says, and Rachel nods.

They've just finished a thorough round of questioning with one of Maroni's enforcers, offering protection in exchange for incriminating testimony. It's when they step out of the tiny interrogation room that they realize something is going on that's bigger than mob enforcers.

That "something" is the abduction of Barbara Gordon, niece of Lieutenant James Gordon, a notoriously clean cop. Headquarters is chaos, and Gordon is nowhere to be seen. Rachel is surprised to find Bruce sitting on a bench in the hallway. She drifts over to him, her interest piqued.

"When did police stations become the hangout outs of young billionaires?" she asks. He smiles but it's half-hearted. He looks anxious – and worried.

"I was supposed to be having dinner with Barbara tonight," Bruce says. "A business dinner. She's applying for a position at Wayne Enterprises."

"I didn't think you went to so much effort for an entry-level position," Rachel responds.

"Her uncle is a good man," Bruce says, and Rachel does not question that. She's worked with Gordon before, and believes him to be one of the best cops in the city. But part of her wonders of Bruce is here for more than just business…

"Where is he?" she asks, glancing around. Harvey has disappeared from her line of sight.

"The roof. The signal's been on for half an hour but it's just getting dark enough to see it," Bruce says. He lowers his voice. "No one's said I could leave yet."

"Then maybe you shouldn't."

"Rachel," Bruce says, leaning towards her, "you know most of these cops work for Maroni. You also know that nothing goes down in this city without Maroni's stamp of approval…"

He's trying to sound calm but there's an edge to his voice, an intensity that frightens her just like his alter-ego does. She knows he's right, that Batman's the only chance of saving Barbara Gordon's life.

"Have you given your statement?" she asks, feeling like she's breeching every bit of protocol she ever learned. He nods.

"Just go," she whispers. "And good luck."

He stands but Harvey's back in her field of vision and she turns away from Bruce and towards him. She knows that if she looks back, he won't be there (he's so very good at disappearing).

"This place is a nuthouse," Harvey says, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her close. "They're mounting a search. They're also interrogating some of the witnesses – her colleagues at the library, people on the street. Apparently Bruce Wayne talked to them as well."

"How interesting," she replies vaguely.

Harvey pulls a paper from the tray of a nearby printer. "Pretty cute girl."

Barbara Gordon smiles from a missing persons poster, and Rachel feels so tremendously sad.

…

When she comes to, she is sitting in a chair. Her hands are bound behind her, and her eyes are blindfolded. The fact that she can't remember blacking out makes her gasp when she feels the rope against her wrists and her entire body goes cold.

"Be quiet," someone says. "No sudden moves."

The room is dark and her bottom lip throbs. She licks it and tastes blood and it's like her worst nightmare ever.

"Okay," she says. She cannot provoke them, because that will inevitably backfire and hurt her. Just stay calm.

Thankfully, she feels someone brush against her back and the blindfold is taken off. As her eyes slowly adjust to the room, she begins to make out shadows. There is movement, a chair scraping across the floor. Just like in the movies, she thinks, but it's only missing a bright –

Yeah. Right there.

She squints as someone shines a flashlight at her and knows that she must be in Maroni's lair. She has a feeling the other one, that Joker, wouldn't be so cliché.

"Take a guess why you're here," a man asks. He is standing behind the flashlight and she doesn't look long enough to see who it could be.

"Unpaid parking tickets?" she quips, feeling like it's almost expected of her to say something like that, just so he can laugh – as he does, right now.

"Well, I guess that's not it so what exactly do you want with me?" she asks.

"Leverage," the man says.

"Leverage?"

There is movement, and a shadow passes in front of the light. She can now make out the features of the speaker, a man with dark hair and a very fine suit. He leans down towards her and looks her in the eye and she knows its Maroni and oh, hell.

"You're Barbara Gordon," he tells her, like he's known her his whole life and this is merely a re-introduction. His voice lacks any accent and as her eyes refocus she sees that he is maybe in his late forties, if that at all, with very light eyes and strong features.

"That would be me," she responds.

"Then the reason for you being here in your current state are completely obvious," he says. "Your uncle is bad for business, and I have found a way to negotiate with him."

"Oh," she says. Her uncle has never accepted bribes from Maroni, and works with Batman to bring Maroni down. The mob boss has already bought the majority of the police force and it's obvious that Gordon, as one of the hold-outs, is a liability to Maroni. But now…

"I heard you were a smart girl," Maroni says. "Glad you could figure it out on your on."

"Thank you," she whispers. He laughs again, and must have gestured to someone behind her because her bonds are cut and she is helped to her feet.

"Ms. Gordon – Barbara – may I call you Barbara?" he asks, as he steps forward and takes her arm, "I'm not going to keep you tied up like an animal. But I will keep you here until your uncle is willing to be reasonable."

He opens a door – she must have been in a large closet – and leads her into a very nice room with a bed, tables and chairs, magazines – and three men with semi-automatics. She had never really intended to try to escape but now she knows it would be fruitless.

"Would you like some coffee or tea? Some food? I'll have some food brought up. I understood you were supposed to have dinner with Bruce Wayne but unfortunately, we had to cancel that."

Maroni smiles and it scares her, but not nearly as much as thinking about Colleen, who had been there, or Bruce, who may have been watching.

"I'm not hungry," she says but her stomach growls and betrays her. Maroni laughs. He seems so confident and self-assured and she knows that those traits, and his business-like attitude, allowed him to take over Gotham so quickly.

"Have a seat," he tells her. "I'll make sure some food is sent up."

Barbara sits herself down on the bed, leaning back against the cushions, and takes off her heels. Her feet have been killing her this entire time, and as Maroni leaves, and she rubs the balls of her feet, she wonders if she's going to make it out of here alive.

…

"You rang?"

Gordon turns around suddenly. He's never been so happy to see that masked face before, and wants to tell him as much, but refrains.

"My niece has been kidnapped," he says, realizing how shaky he sounds once the words are spoken.

"I heard," the Bat Man says, and Gordon sighs.

"I think Maroni did it. He hasn't asked for a ransom yet, but he will soon. All the other cops are busy looking like they're mounting a search, but if Maroni's involved they'll go out of their way not to find her. And I don't know what will happen to her."

He tries to quell the anxiety that has been rising inside him ever since Bruce Wayne arrived at headquarters saying he saw Barbara get kidnapped. To his credit, Wayne looked genuinely concerned and upset (more than he thought the playboy would be) which was nice, and he remembered the small scared boy the night of his parents murder (ohpleasedontletherbe - ).

He must have faltered, because the other man reached out for him, placing a heavy hand on his shoulder.

"Are there any leads?" he asks, and Gordon shakes his head. "Not really. The white van Wayne described was found abandoned by the docks, and even if the nearby buildings were thoroughly searched, no one found anything."

"I'll start there," he tells Gordon.

"I'm coming with you."

The man starts to say something, but stops. Gordon fills the empty space.

"I can't sit here idle."

"Meet me in the alley behind the station."

…

Maroni is true to his word, sending up some food for her to eat which she does, albeit begrudgingly (she's working off the believe that poisoning her would get him nowhere and the fact that the guards share it with her eases her mind some).

"So what do hostages usually do?" she asks one of the men, leaning back against the headboard.

"Sit down and shut the fuck up," he snarls at her, gesturing with his gun.

She just nods. She has never been shot and never wants to learn what it feels like.

So she sits and thinks. She contemplates the variety of ways she could escape, all of which involve the opening of the door and the incapacitation of at least one guard. She wonders what her uncle is doing (going to Batman for help) and what Batman is doing, if anything at all, to save her.

She hopes that someone knows she's here, or anywhere, with Maroni.

…

Barbara's not at the docks – no one is, actually. The buildings are abandoned, there are no secret rooms or compartments, and the white van has been taken by forensics.

Gordon, however, grows more anxious as they walk back to the Tumbler. Bruce wants to say something to the man, reach out and let him know that he's just as worried about Barbara but the proper thing to say escapes him.

Inside the car, Bruce tells him that there's nothing more to be done tonight, that Gordon needs to get back to the station and wait for Maroni to contact them.

"If he has Barbara, then he wants something," Bruce says.

"He wants me to give in," Gordon replies. "And he's using something I love to force me into it."

"We'll find her," Bruce offers, trying to comfort the lieutenant.

"I never told her this," Gordon says after a pause, ignoring everything Bruce has just said, "but I may be her father. I was messing around with Marlene before John started dating her and they got together really quickly, and I was only seventeen, eighteen but still – Marlene never was sure which one of us was the father."

He stops again, only for a minute, and when he continues his voice is strained, sad. "I raised her the best I could, loved her like a father, and my ideals have put her in this position."

Bruce doesn't know what to say. It's a surprising admission – who would have thought as much? Finally, he says, "I will do everything I can to find her, Lieutenant." And he means it.

The uneasiness in his stomach grows until he comes home. It's is nearly dawn, and he pours himself a glass of scotch, takes a sip, and then throws it against a wall in anger.

He did this – he slipped up. He should have noticed the van, should have been suspicious about it but all he could think about was Barbara and now there might not even be a Barbara left to think about anymore, not if –

"Master Wayne?"

He turns to find Alfred standing in the doorway, holding out another glass.

"Were they imported?" Bruce asks.

"Not by us, no. A gift, from an acquaintance in Metropolis."

"I'm going to find Maroni," he tells Alfred, "and if so much as a hair on her head is damaged, I will make him sorry he ever came to Gotham."

"No idle threat, sir," Alfred responds. "Perhaps you should get some rest. You'll be no use to Miss Gordon if you're exhausted."

But all he can manage is a light doze, and even then those green eyes of hers are pleading, her smile hidden behind a cloth gag, her feet bound, and Maroni's thugs around her.

He has already let his affection put her in jeopardy. He just hopes it won't end up killing her.

…

There is a commotion outside the room. The guards, alert to the potential danger, point their weapons at the door but when it opens, it's only Maroni.

"See for yourself," he tells someone behind him. The figure enters the room, and takes a good long look at Barbara.

She gasps.

There are scars like he said – scars in the shape of his smile, which he's smeared red lipstick on. He wears cake makeup, and shadows around his eyes, and his hair is an unnatural shade of green and he walks in such a way that she's definitely sure he read those books on stage performance.

"So this is Lieutenant Gordon's niece," he says. "This is your leverage." He's mocking Maroni, she knows, as he nears the bed. He lifts up her chin and she tries not to look at him but then he opens her mouth with a finger and begins looking at her teeth.

"Quality, though," he says, and she recoils in horror at what this could possibly mean.

"Now now, my precious girl," he coos at her, "you have nothing to worry about.

For the first time she feels absolute fear at the nature of her situation but she has to pay attention, has to remember everything. The Joker is working with Maroni and Maroni has taken her hostage to gain leverage which means that –

"Look, you wanted to see her, now you've seen her," Maroni says, trying to get the main away from his hostage and she wants nothing more than her savior to come through the door now and take her away from all of this.

The Joker stares at Maroni for several heartbeats, and then steps away.

"Did you really think it would be that easy?" he says, his jovial tone replaced by something deeper and far more sinister.

There is a breath, and then all hell breaks loose.


	8. 8

This time, she's not knocked unconscious. She's taken from the room by two men in clown masks before the shooting starts and dragged physically down the stairs and thrown into an ancient car (what the hell is all of this, anyway?) where her wrists and legs are bound and a leather gag placed over her mouth. She tries to struggle – they are only two men and she can't just be complacent now that she's been kidnapped from her kidnapper – but one of them pushes her down.

"Shut up, princess," he growls in her ear. "You're better off with us anyway."

An eternity stretches before the Joker and several others cram themselves into the car and they take off, speeding down dark alleyways and abandoned city streets.

The sun is on the horizon – it must be near dawn. She has been in captivity for at least twelve hours.

And somehow, she is still alive (she is not so sure about Maroni).

After some time, they arrive at an abandoned factory. She thinks she must be somewhere near the Narrows if not in it and that doesn't surprise her at all. She is taken forcefully out of the car and she doesn't really fight because there's no real point when she's bound and gagged.

They deposit her in a dark room, throwing her on the floor. She scurries back against a wall ( _at least I can use it to stand if something happens…_ ). The leather pushed against her mouth tastes horrible, but someone removes it and she can't help it – she speaks first.

"What do you want with me?" she asks, because this can't be about her uncle and leverage. This has to be about something else.

"Sorry to break it to you," the Joker says, smiling and it's deranged and horrifying, "but if you haven't figured it out already, none of this is about you." He approaches her from the corner of the room, every step menacing and closer to her and this is a nightmare.

"I've guessed as much," she says, "but seeing that I've been taken hostage twice in one day, I'm starting to wonder what exactly makes me so special." She feigns confidence and looks him straight in the eye. "You're not after my uncle so what exactly do you need me for?"

"I'm impressed," he responds, crouching down so that they're eye-level. "Clever girl."

She doesn't know how far is too far to push him, so she doesn't say anything and her lack of response keeps him talking. He leans forward, and she tries not to cringe (she has never liked clowns).

"I know about your friend," he whispers in her ear, "the Batman."

"Really now," she responds calmly.

"Really." He stands up again, and one of the goons hands him several glossy papers. He cuts her hands free and gives her the photographs.

They're surveillance photos, long-lensed shoots of her rooftop over the past month.

"My hair looks like shit," she tells him even as she cringes at seeing these interactions caught on film. She can't believe she was naïve enough to think no one would come after her, and she would be safe.

"In the last one, yes," the Joker agrees but skirts that issue entirely. "Now, princess, all I really need is the identity of your friend. I'm sure you know that, right?"

For the first time in her life, she's grateful she doesn't know something. "Actually, I don't. He never told me, and I never asked. Didn't want the spell to be broken," she says, glancing down at the dark figure in the photos.

"Are you sure?" her captor asks, and she can hear the annoyance in his voice.

"Absolutely positive. I tried to figure it out for a while, but he's very good at covering his tracks," she tells him honestly.

There is a pause, and he starts laughing. It's a frightening, hysterical laugh that makes her realize her usefulness is almost up and she may very well die here in an abandoned factory where the rats will pick her dead body apart before anyone finds her. Her lip quivers and she's on the verge of tears when he stops laughing and studies her.

"Pretty girl," he says, "and I'm sure your Bat friend won't let a pretty girl like you go to waste." He orders his men to untie her legs.

"What's going to happen to me?" she asks in a whisper.

"You'll be my leverage," he says with a grin, and then they leave, the door is slammed shut, and she is left in total darkness.

She can't hold out any longer, as the tears (tears she did not shed in Maroni's presence) threaten to overwhelm her.

…

Lucius arrives unexpectedly at 8, waking him from his light doze. He brings with him a large box, and Bruce can't help but speculate about what is inside.

"I heard about Ms. Gordon," he says. "I have something for you."

He opens the box to reveal new armor, and tools.

"It's ridiculous that you've been traipsing out to the manor as often as you have. Store the Tumbler in Wayne Tower, and I'm going to install some sort of changing room for you here. And try on the new armor while you're at it. Lighter and more durable – and see how the cowl moves."

It is nicer than his other suit, and he's grateful that Lucius has the presence of mind to come and help him like this.

"Thanks," he says, removing the cowl.

"You're welcome. Now, direct me to a spare closet in this spacious abode," Lucius orders him with a smile.

He nods, and points him down the hall.

Alfred soon arrives with the morning paper and coffee. Barbara's face is all over the front page, a causal picture of her with her family, smiling and holding her little cousin. There are more pictures inside, pictures from college and work and he can't stand to look at her happy (pretty) smiling face anymore.

"You need to stop blaming yourself," Alfred tells him.

"What if it was my fault?"

"You best not tell the reporters that," he responds. "They've been calling all morning."

"About what?" Bruce asks, reaching for the phone that Alfred is holding.

"Your name is being linked with Ms. Gordon's, since you alerted the police to her disappearance."

Bruce turns on the television. More images of Barbara greet him, along with the scrollbar which proclaims her to be a potential love interest.

"This certainly does complicate things," he says.

…

Gotham City PD is bursting with reporters, and Bruce elbows his way past them and into the hall.

"Bruce!" someone calls out, and he sees Rachel hurrying toward him. He had called her, asked her to come to the station with him and help him get out of this mess. It seems she's brought her boss as well.

"Harvey," Bruce says, shaking hands with the DA.

"Missing white girl syndrome," Dent says, looking around the station. "The newspapers and television stations latched on to the fact she's attractive and now they're looking for every angle possible. Hence that little ticker this morning."

"I heard they'd like to interview me for a five-minute segment," Bruce says sarcastically, and Harvey cracks a smile.

"Gordon's a wreck," Rachel says. "Hasn't slept at all and the worst part is – shots were fired at a warehouse in the Narrows this morning. Cops found several of Maroni's men dead. Barbara was gone."

Maybe it's the incessant drone of phones ringing and people talking around him, maybe it's the tight alcove they're squeezed into, maybe it's something else, but he feels dizzy and nauseous.

"You alright?" Rachel asks, placing a hand on his arm.

"Claustrophobic," he responds,

"Well look at that," Dent says, as the television sets in the station go dark, then static, then a face appears.

It's Barbara. She's bound, and gagged, her eyes puffy from crying. A man crosses in front of her.

"Hello, Gotham!" he proclaims loudly, cheerfully. His face is white, painted with cake makeup. Red lipstick traces the scar that mars his visage, and his hair is green.

"You may call me the Joker." He smiles for the camera, and Rachel gasps.

"Now, you may be wondering what this is all about, and the name of my lovely assistant." The camera pans to Barbara, whose frightened eyes go between the camera and the Joker. "This, kids, is Miss Barbara Gordon, and she is here today to help me with a little magic trick."

Bruce hears Gordon in the background, sees him elbow his way to the front of one group and stare at the television screen.

"Is someone recording this?" he shouts.

"Yes, sir!" someone responds.

"You see, Miss Gordon has graciously volunteered her time while I try to perform a little illusion for you," the Joker says. The camera pans away from Barbara, and follows him as he paces sideways. "I like to call this trick 'how to pull a Batman out of thin air'."

He laughs manically, and Bruce feels fear in the pit of his stomach. This isn't about Gordon and leverage for a crime boss – this is about him, and his actions. And Barbara is in the middle of it…

"Now, I know that Batman wouldn't want a lovely young thing like Miss Gordon here to suffer," the Joker says, tracing a finger along her cheek. Barbara flinches visibly, and the Joker smiles because of it. "No, he seems like a noble sort. Which is why he'll turn himself in – expose himself to Gotham…" he trails off, then stares at the camera, "or I'll show you all another trick, one that I'm sure Miss Gordon here will find hilarious."

"No!" Gordon shouts across the room, pounding a desk with his fist. It is only Rachel's hand on his arm that restrains Bruce from doing something similar.

"You have twenty-four hours to come forward, Batman. We don't want to spoil it for the children now do we?"

The screen goes blank before the newscasters come on, and the police station roars to life.

"Did we tape it? I want analysis – how he's broadcasting it, how long ago it was taped, what's going on at the news station, everything!" Gordon yells. The other officers in the station scurry about quickly, because unlike Maroni, they can go after the Joker.

Rachel pulls Bruce into a nearby doorway. "What are you going to do?" she whispers.

"I…." he stutters, unsure. Never in his plan did he expect to expose himself but if Barbara's life is at stake, he may have no choice.

"You know as well as I that Batman can probably find this guy," she says. "He doesn't need to expose himself if possible."

"He didn't even give a reason for wanting to find Batman," Dent says, suddenly entering the conversation.

"Yeah," Bruce responds. "But I mean, those crazies – probably meant for each other."

"Yeah," Dent says, looking away. "I have a feeling those news stations probably won't want your interview now – you lack the requisite crazy hair."

"Probably not. I'll go home then." Bruce catches Rachel's hand.

"We'll be in touch," she tells him, and he wonders how she feels about all of this, and his alter-ego now.

…

At first she thinks she can't sleep, and then she finds herself nodding off. She can hear rodents scratching in the walls, and thinks she feels a tail across her leg, but it might just be her imagination. She's hungry again, and doesn't trust what the Joker might offer her. He doesn't need her for very long, has already threatened to kill her in that tape she's sure has made it to the tv stations by now. She hates to think she's grateful for the kindness of Maroni, but she is.

She feels numb. She tries to piece this together, tries to understand what exactly is going on. The Joker stole him from Maroni, who he must have been working with. Joker wants to know who Batman is, for some reason – probably to take him down.

She works over ways to escape, ways that she can be saved in her mind until the door opens and that familiar figure of terror leans in the doorway.

"Your brilliant performance as my assistant is all the rage in the city," he says. "I might just keep you for an encore. I should have known that even grown men are a sucker for a pretty girl's tears."

"Okay," she says, her lips dry and chapped and hurting as she speaks.

"I had expected a smidge more enthusiasm, buttercup," he tells her. "Next time, kick it up a notch."

"What do you expect to gain from all this?" she asks, feeling hopeless.

"The removal of that pest from my city," he says. "The sooner he comes forward, the sooner things can get back to normal."

"What if he asks like the pest he is, and tries to rescue me?" she asks. She tries not to sound too hopefully, because the way things are going, any rescue attempt will probably end disastrously.

"Well, like any pest," he says, with a smile, "we've already taken care of laying the traps. You better hope he's not that stupid."

"Wouldn't you want that, though? To kill him?"

"Buttercup," he says, "I don't really want to kill him, not that badly. Maim him, maybe, torture him for a bit, but the best form of torture would be to expose the anonymous vigilante to the city he loves to protect, and see how kindly they open their arms to him."

She doesn't say anything. It's a brilliantly insane plan, echoing all the characteristics of the man they've come to realize over the past four or five months.

Instead, she hopes against all hope that he doesn't act the fool and come after her alone, but that's almost too much to ask for.

…

It is nearly noon, and Rachel's stomach growls. They've been at the station since nine, waiting for news of anything on this case. As public defenders, they can be there but they stay in the shadows, paying attention to what's going on. This is all Harvey's idea, and he's been nice enough to bring her coffee but she could really go for a sandwich right now.

"Hungry?" he asks, and she notices that he's a bit distant.

"Yeah. Think we could go grab some food, take a break?" she asks. "I mean, even if they get a lead, we'll hear the sirens down the block."

"Yeah, we could do that."

The streets are full of newspaper reporters, and so they take the back exit down and out into an alley.

"There's a sandwich place around the corner," she tells him, and that's when she notices that he's stopped.

"I think I'm going to turn myself in," he says.

"What?" she asks. _Where did this come from?_

"As Batman. I'm going to tell him I'm Batman."

"But you're not," she says.

He looks confused. "How do you know I'm not?" he asks.

"Because Batman's been here longer than you," she says. "That much is common sense."

"But he's not going to turn himself in. A man who goes through that much effort to protect his identity won't be willing to part with it."

"But that doesn't mean you should take the responsibility on your shoulders." _No one should._

Harvey looks away, and looks back agitated. "He could kill that girl."

"He could," she says, stepping closer to him, "but he could also kill you. And you've helped this city so much, just as much as Batman. We can't lose either of you." She means it, because as much as she doesn't like what Bruce does, she can't help but be grateful for the effort he's put into it. And with Harvey, she feels like she's actually serving justice these days.

"I know," Harvey says. "I just…"

"What if I arranged a meeting with you and him? Batman?" she asks. Job aside, she thanks god that it's just Bruce, not someone else, so she can make sure Harvey doesn't sacrifice himself unnecessarily.

Harvey's eyes widen. "You know him."

"I've been here longer than you. I've got some connections that know how to reach him," she says, exaggerating the truth. "We could feasibly arrange something - after you buy me lunch."

"You drive a hard bargain, Rachel Dawes," Harvey says with a smile, "let's go get some food."

As they make their way to the restaurant, Rachel hopes that they'll be in time, and that Bruce hasn't turned himself in yet. By the looks of things, Barbara Gordon makes him vulnerable, and it's disconcerting (and oddly appropriate) for a hero to have such an obvious flaw.


	9. 9

"This is never going to work," Bruce says.

"But the thing is," Harvey says, "it just might."

Bruce fixes his gaze on the district attorney, the gaze that makes criminals stammer and shake and which, he hopes, will make the man reconsider his proposition. Harvey is smart, however – he looks away from Batman.

"Look," Rachel says suddenly, arms folded across her chest, clearly displeased with the situation, "there is a chance it might work. And there's a chance this will go horribly wrong. But what else can we do?"

He wants to say let me handle this. He wants to say _no one needs to put themselves at risk._ He wants to _say everything will be all right_ but he knows that's not the case. When Rachel called him, he said as much, but her response – "The city needs a knight in black body armor" – resonated much louder than his objections.

They all know that the city needs someone to protect the helpless and beat some sense into the criminals, and that the unmasking of Batman has the potential to thrust the city back into darkness.

 _People forget that we came so close to chaos only to be pulled back by him._ Barbara's words ring in his ears and he is overwhelmed with guilt for not acting soon enough, for involving her in his world, for so many things. Most of all, he's ashamed he's never been the man she thought he was, and if the Joker so much as touches a hair on her head –

He shakes his head in a vain effort to clear his mind. Maybe Dent's right. Maybe this the only way to save her.

He owes her that much.

"Let's go over the plan again," he says, trying not to notice the surprise in Dent's eyes. As the man rattles off his ideas, and Rachel tries to look attentive instead of apprehensive, Bruce can't help but wonder what happens if this works.

…

Every nerve of her body, every inch of her skin, is tense, ready for the inevitable moment when the door opens and she's staring down the barrel of a gun (though, this dark, she might not even see said barrel). She is hungry past the point of nausea and right on into lightheadedness – not a fitting state for the captive, but perfect for the captor. She almost wishes he'd come in here and finish it, because if Batman does come to save her, the entire place might blow up and kill both of them. Collateral damage – she's not needed. And her life boils down to one thing: she's not important in the grand scheme of things.

If Batman does come, it won't be for her sake. It'll be for her uncle. Barbara is more than a renegade to rein in before she dug too deep. It would have been better if she never met him, never even looked twice, but the instinct – the belief in the goodness of man, even men who dress like bats – is too deep in her Gordon blood to fade. Curiosity killed the cat.

She wishes she could have told her family how much she loved them.

The door opens and she tenses more.

"How's my little assistant doing?" the Joker asks, entering the room with posse in tow. He leans down to eye-level, studying her features.

"No worse for the wear," she says. Despite all her melancholy thoughts, she knows that she cannot convey her current state to her captor. She doesn't want to think about what he might do if he knew how despondent she was.

"Red hair," he says, reaching out to twist a lock around a gloved finger. "Green eyes. You're quite the picture of a damsel in distress."

"I'm not distressed," she says, her voice sounding soft and trembling in the dark room (she is terrified of his proximity).

"Why so serious, princess?" he asks. "Chin up!" Gloved fingers on her chin. They are eye to eye (she is shaking so hard - ).

She can't stand him touching her, can't look away because his finger holds her jaw steady.

"Your Bat has taken the bait," he says cheerfully, letting her go. "I'm rather impressed."

"I'm not," she says, sighing. She knew he'd do something, but not for her sake – for the sake of the city, for the greater good.

"Accept the inevitable," he says with a smile, and she looks away. "What doesn't kill you only makes you stranger."

The door slams close and she feels...different. Not better, just not as sad. Tired. Happy, that something is going to happen, no matter how shitty it may turn out for her. Justified, that Batman really is the man she thought he was.

She leans her head back against the wall. If he leaves –for whatever reason, for whatever plan – he will leave guards with her. And if – if – she is to be free, she must wait.

"What doesn't kill you only makes you stronger," she says to herself, hoping it to be true.

…

"What do you think?" Harvey asks, flexing his arms. "It's a bit loose but hopefully no one will notice."

"Hopefully," Rachel says. She examines him up and down, and the suit – an old one, Bruce said – fits near-perfectly (she never thought Bruce was that much more built). It doesn't matter if it's loose or not – there are many more concerns than body armor (though that doesn't hurt, really).

The door to the store-room opens, but thankfully it's just Gordon, who jumps back, startled by the mere appearance of Batman. It's a start, Rachel thinks, glad that the suit is so intimidating.

Gordon knows the plan – it was the one request Batman made, and Harvey was more than willing to acquiesce to that. It makes it easier on all of them with at least one cop in on it all.

It will hopefully shake out like this: Harvey will attempt to draw the Joker's ire when he unmasks on the steps of City Hall. Meanwhile, Batman (and Gordon, and a SWAT team) will search the abandoned warehouses just south of town, where a car fitting the description of a vehicle speeding away from the scene of the Maroni shoot-out this morning has been spotted. It all seems…sloppy, in Rachel's mind, at least the part about the Joker, but she's more worried about Harvey at the moment to think straight about Bruce (a tangled web indeed…)

"Do I look fearsome enough?" Harvey asks, striking the standard superhero pose with his hand on his hips and his chest thrust out.

"You're being very cavalier about all this," Rachel says.

"I trust Batman," Harvey says.

"You look too nice," Gordon points out. "Batman's always angry."

"You talkin' to me, punk?" Harvey snarls, and Gordon smiles.

"Exactly like that."

"We better get going," Rachel says, opening the door. _Let's hope this all goes well…_

…

It's sloppy – too sloppy, Bruce thinks, as the Joker's men hurry to their cars, followed soon by the Joker himself. He has his war paint on and so do I Bruce thinks as he watches them go, peeling out of the alleyway and making their way downtown.

It's not going to be easy – in fact, there's a good chance it'll all fail miserably, and that's what makes his stomach turn. He has layouts of the factory, sensors that detect bombs and whatever latest technology Fox is working on to remotely turn them off (he thanks whatever god there is for the day that Wayne Enterprises decided to go into the business of warfare). He has tear gas and an extra mask and he's handled bigger thugs than whatever the Joker left behind…but he's wary. There's the Joker's toxin to worry about – again, gas masks – but he's a creative guy, he could have come up with some new way to deliver the poison. Then again, he might just be so focused on Batman that he doesn't give a shit what happens to anyone else, his lackeys or Barbara.

Bruce' stomach turns. He hopes he can do this in time. He hopes he can save Barbara, and do it before the Joker reaches Dent – before Dent has to reveal himself. He's nervous, and on edge, and ready for a fight.

Let's go.

...

This is how she remembers it:

There are gunshots in the distance and her heart pounds louder than the shots ringing in her ears. I will die here I will die here I will die here alone her blood sings as it rushes through her veins, sending adrenaline through her already tense body. I will die here alone.

The door opens and he is there, body armor and black cape and this must be a hallucination, it cannot possibly be him since he's supposed to be where the Joker is, not here. Her mind stumbles, hazy from lack of food and water, trying to find a way to identify a man she doesn't know in case – in case –

"What did I do on New Year's?" she slurs – the light behind him is so bright and she is so tired –

"You stayed in Gotham even though you were supposed to be in Metropolis," he responds, though his voice sounds so far away. "You stayed because of me." He draws near and picks her up as if she's weightless and slips something over her face.

"Gas mask," he tells her. "Just hold on."

She holds on, arms around his neck, as they enter a haze of fog or gas or smoke, she's not sure which. There's a hideous sound – laughter? Crying? – but she does not look, closes her eyes tight and holds onto him tighter.

I will not die here alone –

He rips the gas mask off of her and says, "Breathe in."

She does. And opens her eyes, happy to see that they are outside, not inside, and appear to be safe. She breathes in, and starts to cry.

She clings to him, burying her head against his chest and sobbing freely. She is so happy to feel the cool night air against her face, and unashamed at the never-ending tears. For his sake, he holds her and lets her cry, calmly stroking her hair with gloved hands.

In the distance she hears sirens, and thinks of her uncle.

"I'm so glad you found me," she tells him, struggling to catch her voice.

"I'm so glad you're safe," he says in his harsh whisper, and she looks up, into his dark eyes.

"He knows," she whispers, "he knows that I've helped you. He's trying to expose who you really are and make Gotham hate you."

"It's all right now," he says. "You're safe."

The sirens draw closer.

"Thank you," she says again.

"I'll be in touch," he responds.

A car stops, and a door opens. She sees the outline of her uncle in the car's headlights, and the crying starts all over again when she feels his arms around her and hears him whispering, "Oh God, you're safe, you're finally safe."

…

They take her to the hospital, where she is thoroughly examined (and, to his relief, unharmed safe for some bruises and dehydration). They put her in a private room, away from prying eyes, and she gives her statement before she is sedated.

She looks so young when she sleeps, and he brushes hair away from her pale face. He has raised her, and loves her, and this has been so hard, thinking she may be dead…

"Is she asleep?" a woman asks, and he's not surprised to find Rachel Dawes, assistant DA, lingering in the doorway.

"Sedated," he says. "Thank God."

He tries to remember that it has only been half an hour since Barbara gave her testimony, half an hour since she told them explicitly how she was kidnapped by Maroni, how Maroni had been a pawn of the Joker, and how the Joker sought to exploit Batman.

He tries not to think about the Joker, in custody, waiting to be questioned at the jail. His accomplices at the warehouse are dead, from the toxin. Gordon is grateful he did not witness that.

He is grateful for many things: for Barbara's safety, for catching the Joker before Dent unmasked, for Batman saving the day once more. But that is now, and tomorrow will be different.

"At least she's safe now," Dawes says.

"Yeah," Gordon responds. He doesn't have much energy for conversation anymore.

"I'll see you tomorrow," Dawes says. "Goodnight, Lieutenant."

The click of her heels has not faded down the tiled hall before they receive another visitor.

He sees the shape huddled by the window before Batman can speak, so he says, "I know you said I never had to thank you, but I want you to know how much I appreciate all of your help."

"It was the least I could do," Batman says. As he draws nearer to the bed, Gordon can make out more of his features. The differences between the DA and the mysterious Batman become more obvious – Batman is bigger, taller…haunted, in a way that Dent could never possibly be. Whatever drives this man to don that body armor every night is a force more powerful than Gordon could possibly imagine, but he's grateful all the same.

"Sedated?" Batman asks, looking at Barbara's sleeping form.

"Yes." He pauses.

"She had a website about you, you know," Gordon says suddenly, remembering his niece's keen interest in Batman and thinking of how jealous she'll be that he stopped by when she was sleeping. "The Bat Files. Ridiculous name, but she had fun updating it. I think she was bored with her job and wanted something else to do. She stopped updating a couple months ago, I think, but point is…she really admires you. All of us do."

"I know," the Batman says, but what statement he's responding to eludes the lieutenant. The website? Admiration? Both?

"Thank you," Gordon says once more, but when he turns, the other man is already gone.

…

It takes considerable effort to be undetected by the Gotham PD who seem to be out in force tonight – okay, maybe not that much effort since he's Batman – but Bruce manages to make it to Dent's apartment without being noticed.

The district attorney is pouring himself a drink at the bar when Bruce slides open the window. There is movement – his own dark reflection on the mirror above the bar – and Dent says, "Good to see Batman's no worse for the wear."

Bruce nods. He is grateful that the cops caught up with the Joker minutes after Barbara was rescued (he has little faith in the city's police). He's concerned, of course, but incredibly grateful that Dent did not have to expose himself in public, saving both of them anxiety. There's thousands of things that could have gone wrong, thousands of outcomes, but for all those involved, it seems like they came out ahead.

For now.

"Thank you, for being willing to risk your neck for me," Bruce tells the other man, who takes a slow sip of his drink.

"I'm grateful that you're out there," Dent says. "But tonight was an eye-opener for me." He gestures to Bruce's body armor. "Being in that suit made everything real. Being up there, pretending to be you…well…"

Dent trails off and Bruce feels something akin to dread in the pit of his stomach.

"As much as I'm glad you've made the city safer," Dent continues after some time, "I'm not entirely sure you made the city better. I don't think we would have had a criminal like this Joker without you. The minute you start using costumes, you start asking for the nutjobs."

Bruce remains silent. This observation, while true, ignores the fact that there have been will always be nutjobs out to stir up trouble. Of course, the fact remains that removing Falcone brought in Maroni, who is ten times worse than Falcone ever was.

"He was talking about a 'worthy criminal' when they booked him," Dent says. "Obviously he's trying to be your antagonist."

Bruce wouldn't go so far as to call him an antagonist in the truest sense but the more Dent speaks, the more he can see the change in the DA's viewpoint. Batman, for all the good he's done, has become a threat to the safety of Gotham in Dent's mind, and this doesn't bode well.

"Point taken," Bruce says. "I'll try to keep a low profile."

Dent takes a sip of his drink. "Probably a good idea," he says, the ice cubes clinking in his glass. "Look, we both want Gotham to be safe. Maybe the vigilante route isn't the best way."

Bruce nods, but says nothing else. His exit is silent, his mind spinning with the implications of Dent's about-face. He can do nothing but continue to exist, cleaning up the streets. He will wait, and watch. Only time will tell.


	10. 10

Gordon calls and so Batman comes, lingering in the interrogation room. He stands behind the psychotic killer, waiting until the right moment and he gets to smash the Joker's head into the metal desk. This is for Barbara he thinks with every blow and somehow it eases the anger that's been building inside of him ever since he rescued her last night. His relief at finding her safe has been consumed by rage at anyone who dared to lay a finger on her to begin with. And so he takes out his anger with his fist against the Joker's jaw, wanting desperately to hear the sound of bones breaking, as if it would (somehow) clear his own guilty conscience.

But the other man, this Joker, seems to enjoy the pain, and throws out comments about how they complete each other and how he's the challenge that Batman's been waiting for – a better class of criminal for a better class of crusader. He rambles about chaos and the lack of goodness in humanity and breaking the rules and Bruce keeps throwing him against the wall, the table, anything. Nothing coming out of his mouth is helpful; everything coming out of his mouth enrages him.

"Why did you take her?" Bruce demands.

"Isn't it obvious?" the Joker cackles.

The man's head hits the table one more time.

"What do you want from me?" Batman asks again, and the madman laughs.

"I want to make you break your rule," he says with a grin, "the rule you hold so dearly."

Another blow, this time across the face.

"You're making me all fuzzy," the Joker says. "How is beating me going to save them?"

Them.

Just at that moment Gordon bursts in the room.

"We've got threats against Commissioner Loeb and the Mayor," he says. Batman slams the unlucky soul's head into the mirror again.

"WHERE ARE THEY?" he growls.

Without much preamble – but with a good amount of laughter – addresses are given and he's off in the early dawn to save the Commissioner.

He saves the mayor instead. While he's gone, the Joker triggers a bomb that blows up the Major Crime Unit offices. Gordon and his cops are safe, but the same cannot be said for Commissioner Loeb, who dies from poison in his whiskey.

In the cool dawn of morning, his head still spins as he tries to understand the past twelve hours. He has a strong sense of foreboding - as if this is only the beginning. Actions like these can only lead to chaos, which is exactly what the Joker wants. He only hopes the city is stronger than that.

He's not entirely sure it is.

…

The world is a different place when she wakes up.

"Your uncle had to go to work," her aunt Barb says as she blinks away sleep. Her cousin is curled up beside her, his head on the pillow next to hers.

"Oh," is all Barbara can respond.

 **JOKER TAKEN INTO CUSTODY,** the headline glares at her from the paper her aunt has carelessly left by the bedside as she goes to the bathroom. Skimming the front page, she reads about her rescue and how the SWAT team caught the Joker before he could meet Batman at City Hall. There is also a page and a half of speculation about Batman's real identity, with District Attorney Harvey Dent's name listed as number one, her uncle as number seven, and Bruce Wayne as number fifteen.

Next to the list there is a picture of Dent. She covers the upper portion of his visage with her hand, looking intently at his mouth and jaw, which doesn't look familiar to her. She assumes that it's because the picture's grainy and she's still very tired, but to be honest, it's hard to believe Dent could be Batman. The evidence is there – his no-nonsense prosecution of criminals, his arrival in the city scant months after Batman's own, the plausibility that a man committed to taking down criminals would find extra-legal ways of doing so.

Somehow, she can't believe it's that simple.

Her aunt returns a moment later.

"We're going to be leaving soon," she says. "There are some things we have to do."

These things include a police escort home. Barbara wants to ask why but she knows if her uncle's not there, it must be serious.

"Okay," she says, her throat so dry she can barely speak the words.

Barbara lets her aunt take care of everything, including pushing a wheelchair to the back entrance. She is grateful when a burly cop helps her into the backseat of the waiting car, and even more grateful that they've gone out the back way when she sees the crowd of photographers and journalists waiting out front.

She's become a celebrity in a macabre fashion and it should make her feel ill but instead she just feels numb.

It's not until that evening, when her uncle returns home, that she learns the Joker has burned down MCU in his escape, and that Commissioner Loeb is dead.

"You know I'll keep you safe," he tells her. "I won't let anything happen to you."

"You don't think he escaped to come after me?" she asks, even though she feels like it's selfish to assume she's that important.

"I think he has bigger goals," her uncle says. He doesn't meet her eyes, and the worry etched on his face sends chills down her spine.

…

Harvey Dent may not like Batman, but he doesn't do anything outright to protest the vigilante. It's a relief to Bruce, but that doesn't make things any easier. Several death threats have been made against both Harvey and Rachel, and Gordon looks like he's running on little sleep as he searches for the Joker. Bruce isn't doing much better, but at least he's got better equipment and body armor than the Gotham City PD.

While Gotham's White Knight says nothing except choice sound bites reminding the people that it's always darkest before the dawn, the public is up in arms. Too many dead cops, too much fear, too much uncertainty. This is not the city they want, and they blame Batman. Look at that poor innocent Barbara Gordon – taken because she's the niece of Lieutenant Gordon – no, wait, Commissioner now. That poor, poor girl.

Overnight, Barbara Gordon becomes the symbol of all that is wrong with Gotham City when an innocent librarian can be used as a pawn in a psychopath's game – and what a game it is, complete with threats and dead men named Harvey or Dent showing up all over the city in an effort to scare the ever-eager DA.

Dent's right. Maybe this is all Batman's fault. If he had never come home, Gotham could have continued down its troubled path and imploded with the help of toxic nerve agents. If he had never come home, he would never have placed Barbara in such peril. He wouldn't have everyone hating and fearing and worshipping him. He wouldn't –

Bruce knows that, whatever regrets he has, it's too late now. If this is his mess, he needs to fix it. If it's not his mess, if it's Gotham itself, he can still help before it gets too late.

…

She doesn't go home; she stays at her uncle's apartment, in her cousin's bedroom. To Jimmy, it's the ultimate sleep-over party, and he tells her so (she's in his bed, he's on a cot, and he couldn't be a happier five-year-old if he tried). She's grateful for the company – she can't be alone, not now.

They told her when she left the hospital that she might have post-traumatic stress disorder. She shook her head but took the handout identifying the symptom. Since then, she's tried not to think much of it. She is alive and safe – that's all that matters.

But it's difficult to eat – the food sits in her stomach, hard as a rock. Her aunt looks concerned but buys more cereal (the only thing she can eat) and refers to the third bullet point on the list: _PTSD can result in problems with digestion and/or loss of appetite._

The neighbors bring casseroles and soufflés and the cops who have to watch the place bring her a couple six packs, because they "know what it's like".

"It's like someone died," she says, opening the fridge and sifting through the casserole dishes (all of which look delicious but smell inedible).

"You almost did," her aunt says, and the truth sits heavy in her stomach, as difficult to digest as the food.

"What's your story?" she asks a young patrolman one day as he lingers in a police car outside the apartment. She shouldn't be out here – her uncle doesn't like her being outside for too long, even in the presence of cops – but she just needs someone to talk to other than a little kid.

"Lost a partner," the young man says with all the severity of a member of Gotham's PD. She wants to ask more but somehow she can't find the words.

The ordeal itself has left her feeling numb. There are moments when it's the only thing she can think about, reliving it all until she's on the verge of tears, and there are other moments when she's so grateful to be alive, still others where she does something else and yet it's like a haze, her mind completely elsewhere and lost in the fog. She wonders when she'll be back to normal, knows it can take some time. Work has called and told her that it's okay to take her time, come back when she needs to, but she doesn't know when that will be. She watches movies on tv but never remembers the plot, and it feels like her life is slowly slipping away.

It doesn't help that he promised to contact her but doesn't.

 _"It's all right now," he says. "You're safe."_

 _"Thank you," she says again._

 _"I'll be in touch," he responds._

But he's not in touch – he never stops by, never calls, never attempts any effort to see her. At first, she is surprised – he was always a man of his word. But in these strange times, she suspects, people change.

She practices conversations she'll have when he actually arrives. Sometimes she's angry: "You promised to contact me after what I went through for you and you totally ignore me!"

Sometimes she's understanding: "I know you've been busy. I hope you've been sleeping."

Sometimes she's raging and bitter and refuses to talk to him.

Sometimes she's happy he doesn't come.

…

Two days after Loeb's funeral, DA Harvey Dent and Assistant DA Rachel Dawes meet with Barbara Gordon go over the facts once again. Should the Joker be brought trial, he will be charged with kidnapping, and Barbara will be a key (albeit reluctant) witness.

She leaves the station first, escorted home by her uncle.

Dawes and Dent never make it home.

One is taken to an abandoned office building on Avenue X at Cicero; the other, a dilapidated factory at 250 52nd Street. Timers are set, oil drums wired, goodbyes exchanged over jury-rigged speaker phones.

Batman saves Dent; Rachel is not so lucky.

Bruce is sure that the pain Dent feels is equal to if not moreso than his own. Dent was allegedly dating Rachel, and whatever personal relationship they had was exacerbated by their professional partnership. If Dent ever recovers, it will be a miracle if he's a shade of his former self.

"The price that Gotham's paid to the Joker is far too high," Alfred tells him one night. "This needs to end."

He nods in agreement.

…

The city descends into near anarchy faster than she ever thought possible. There is Loeb's death, and then Rachel Dawes, the young DA who was so nice to her. Harvey Dent is lucky to have made it out alive. Her uncle is rarely around, and when he does come home he is tense and tired. He tries to hide it from her but even the slightest bit of change sets her off balance.

She takes Dawes' death hard, knowing it could have been her not so long ago. She knows how young Dawes was, how pretty and how bright, and her uncle tells her that Dawes was a good colleague, and a wonderful ally, and she knows he'd be shaken too if he wasn't constantly busy.

She looks at pictures of Dawes and guesses the age gap between them. Her thoughts flit from sadness to awe to terror to regret in seconds, but she doesn't linger on the last for long. There will be time enough for that.

Her uncle, despite his schedule, does sit still long enough to tell her the truth about her rescue: that Harvey Dent dressed as Batman and was willing to stand up to save her. That he almost lost his life makes her extremely grateful for the lengths the man will go to for Gotham.

She asks to see him at Gotham General. Her uncle is unsure at first, but when she presses her case – how she wants to thank Dent for what he's done – her uncle acquiesces. He even drives her to the hospital, and stands outside the room while she talks to the man.

Or, rather, talks at him. He may be awake for all she knows, but he most definitely is not responding. The nurses say he's in agonizing pain but refuses painkillers. She can't help but compare his own strength to her own weakness (she uses the Vicodin prescribed for her bruised ribs to fall asleep each night in a vain attempt to keep the nightmares at bay).

"Mr. Dent," she says, "It's me, Barbara Gordon." Pause. "I can't believe this happened to you. But I wanted to thank you for all that you've done for me. I wish I could do the same for you.'

She feels awkward and does not stay too long, but she knows that his gauze-covered face will linger in her memory forever.

…

Gordon tells Batman that Harvey Dent is refusing painkillers and skin grafts, wallowing in the loss of Rachel. Unlike him, Bruce cannot afford that luxury, which is why he hunts down Maroni and drops him from the rooftop to find out where, exactly, the Joker keeps himself.

The answer is unsatisfactory – the warehouse where the Joker should be is in flames, and soon there's a guy from Wayne Enterprises ready to expose Bruce's secret to the world. And then, of course, the manhunt: kill Reese or risk losing a hospital.

The pace of escalation is unreal. What starts one day as petty crimes of the theatrical sort (his suit, his colors, his face paint, all perfectly calculated for a man whose plans seem so reckless) turns into toxins and then anarchy. Kidnapping Barbara, killing Loeb, blowing up a warehouse with Rachel inside – burning the mob's cash, as witnesses claim – all of it seems irrational. Not like they're dealing with a model of rationality, but there's something more, something which becomes apparent as Bruce, in his Lamborghini, allows his car to be slammed into by a huge SUV so that Reese, his own employee, will stay safe.

The something more is the feeling of chaos that Ra's Al-Ghul wanted, chaos created not by an artificial toxin, but honest panic. Put enough people together, threaten their homes and lives and safety, and do it fast, not slowly, and you will inspire total anarchy.

Perhaps the Joker knows what he's doing after all.

…

In the midst of the hysteria and fear, Barbara tells her aunt she is going to the store. Instead, she goes home, to the apartment she has barely touched in nearly two weeks, with rotting food and fruit flies. She sits on her couch and stares at the walls, hoping that maybe he will contact her here, not at her uncle's.

He doesn't; she's past being surprised at this point.

She knows he's busy, she knows that there's panic in the air, but she was kidnapped for him, because of him. The least he can do is stop by and say hello.

Despite the fact, that she was only a pawn, she doesn't regret helping him and, given the same opportunity, she knows she would do it again.

That night, the Joker tells everyone to flee or the city will be his. The Gordons, of course, are far too stubborn to leave, and so they stay, rooted in the hope that somehow they will make it through the night.

When Ramirez calls and tells them to move, that it's not safe, that the cops outside will turn against them, it's easy to believe.

It's not until they get to 250 52nd Street that they realize it's a trap.


	11. 11

For a woman with a gun pointing at her, Barbara Gordon thinks she is being incredibly calm.

It's not surprising to her that it was all a trap. Her safety in the midst of all this chaos was almost too good to be true. Her story has been in every newspaper at the beginning of this insanity, and were it not for bigger, grander events orchestrated by the Joker, it would continue to be told ad nauseum until it got too annoying. Truth be told, she's grateful for the chaos – it's saved her more notoriety than she can reasonably stomach.

But this, this is different. This is unexpected. Harvey Dent, Gotham's White Knight, walking out of the shadows with a gun in his hand and smelling strongly of singed synthetic fibers. He stays in the shadows, careful not to reveal too much of his face (she cringes when she thinks of the hospital visit, of blood seeping through the gauze).

"It's so nice to have you here," he greets them. "It's Barbara, right? And that's little Jimmy. Two Barbaras. Two Jims. Perfect." The shadowy smile on his face is frightening.

"Where's Jim?" her aunt asks, hugging Jimmy tightly against her with one arm, reaching for Barbara with the other.

"Oh, he'll be here soon," Harvey says. "In fact, why don't you call him?"

He hands the phone to her aunt, instructing her to tell her uncle that something is very wrong, wrenching the phone away from her when she becomes too despondent to talk.

All the while, his face is revealed – the muscles and bones, skin burnt away in the heat of the fire. She feels nothing but pity at the man she admired, now reduced to this.

"Do you need to stare?"

He's snarling at her, or maybe it's just the damage to his left side of his face curling his lip. Whatever it is, she looks away in embarrassment.

"That's right," he says, stepping closer to her. "I'm hideous now."

"I never said that," Barbara tells him, refusing to meet his gaze even as he draws near. "I feel horrible about what happened to you.

"And you should," he says, waving his gun in their direction. Her aunt gasps and clutches Jimmy closer. Her cousin whimpers. She finally meets his eyes.

"You should feel sorry," he says, "because you were the lucky one. You survived."

…

He tries to take a deep, calming breath but can't. He's never felt fear like this – not with the Joker right in front of him in MCU, not with Dawes and Dent hidden across the city. This is three of them, all that he has in the world. The fear is magnified.

The S.W.A.T. captain looks at him. "Commissioner Gordon, we're moving in."

He looks at the building across the way. His men, and Batman, against armed thugs and the Joker. He hates being so optimistic, but he thinks they can handle it. Hopes they can handle it.

Dent won't do anything until Gordon gets there. He has a feeling the man wants a final battle.

Gordon glances back at his team leader and heads for the door. He calls over his shoulder. "When you finish here, bring the team to 52nd street."

….

"I'm sorry for you loss –" she begins before he spins, still waving his gun.

"WHY ARE YOU HERE WHEN SHE ISN'T?" he rants. "Why do you get the chance to live?"

She is speechless; she understands why he's angry and frustrated, and why he's taking it out on her. Her heart pounds fiercely in her chest as she tries to answer his question – anything, everything, just a response to calm him down.

 _Talk to him. Keep him calm. Don't let him hurt your family._

She has no answer because she doesn't know. He wants an answer, will pry some sort of answer out of her at gunpoint.

 _You wanted to be a hero, Barbara Gordon. That's why you helped Batman. That's why you're still in Gotham and not back in Metropolis. It's your bed – now you better lie in it._

She takes a deep breath, but even that doesn't stop the pounding her of her heart.

…

Down below them, the ferries don't explode and he feels a sense of pride in this city's ability to be reasonable and merciful in a time of chaos.

"What were you hoping to prove?" Bruce asks. "That deep down, we're all as ugly as you?"

The Joker has him pined, so it's easy to get in Bruce's face. He waves the detonator.

"You want to know how I got these scars?" He smiles his mangled smile and Bruce can't help but grin himself.

"No, but I know how you get these."

…

She edges away from her family, just slightly. If he decides to wave the gun at her, a stray bullet might not take out any of them. She knows it may not make a difference but it's the most she can do. He's unpredictable right now.

"I'm sorry," she says again. "You're right."

She glances up at him but his eyes are trained on her, unblinking. She feels her resolve waiver, her body shudder. She tries to compose herself.

Second time she's stared at a criminal. This one has a gun, not just a knife. This time she's not sure her luck will hold out.

"You're right," she says again. Her lip quivers but she bites down for a moment. "I'm not special. I'm nobody."

Her words, spoken to calm Dent, ring shockingly true. She is nobody. A librarian. The niece of now-Commissioner Jim Gordon. The trouble-making kid who had to be distracted by Batman so she wouldn't become too much of a threat. That silly little girl who Bruce Wayne flirted with for laughs. She's nothing in the grand scheme of things and yet she keeps getting drawn in – always at the wrong place at the wrong time.

"You're Gordon's niece," Dent says. "That's enough to merit you salvation."

"Or a one-way ticket to hell," she spits out. She remembers Dent worked for Internal Affairs. "You know how much some cops hate him." Hate you, she wants to add. It's not like anyone working for justice doesn't have some sort of price on their head.

Keep talking. "Look, I'm nobody special. It was luck."

Dent laughs, and its hysterical edge makes her cringe.

"Luck. The only true thing in this world is luck."

He takes something out of his pocket. It's a silver coin.

"What to take a chance?"

…

Just couldn't let me go, could you? I guess this is what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object. You truly are incorruptible, aren't you?

The Joker keeps talking and he doesn't listen at first, instead focusing on tying the man up and thinking about what to do next. But then he says it.

"…until they get a good look at the real Harvey Dent, and all the heroic things he's done…" the Joker laughs. "You didn't think I'd risk losing the battle for the soul of Gotham in a fist fight with you? You've got to have an ace in the hole. Mine's Harvey."

He pulls the man up to stare him in the eye.

"WHAT DID YOU DO?" he asks, not at all nicely.

"I took Gotham's white knight and I brought him down to my level. It wasn't hard – madness is like gravity. All it takes is a little push."

Bruce's mind goes into overdrive. If anything, Harvey will be angry – revenge-driven? Possibly. It wouldn't be the first time someone was driven by the motive of seeking justice. Revenge over Rachel. But who would he go after? Marone's cops first, but after that…

Bruce doesn't know where he'll be, but he has a good idea and that's enough to start.

…

"I think I've tempted fate enough," Barbara wants to say, but she can imagine the reaction that would get.

Instead, she says this: "I'd rather not." She can't say she doesn't believe in luck – luck is what got her out of the Joker's grasp, and chance is what introduced her to Batman in the first place. A double-edge sword, chance. She's not ready to let it condemn her any more than meeting Batman did.

There's a squeal out front, tires spinning on gravel, and he keeps his gun leveled at her.

Her uncle is here.

He finds them quickly enough.

"This is where they brought her, Gordon. After your people handed her over. This is where she died." Pain in every one of Dent's words. Fear on her uncle's face.

And then Batman arrives.

She has to get down – get out of the way. If she takes herself out of the picture, then one of them has a clear shot. Part of her feels bad for thinking like that, like Dent's past the point of saving but he doesn't want to escape – he's made that clear. This is his final stand, and he will go out in a blaze of glory even if he must take the entire Gordon family with him.

"The only morality in a cruel world is chance. Unbiased. Unprejudiced. Fair," Dent snarls, clutching the coin in one hand and his gun in another. She is trapped against him, his body taut with anger.

She has to do something.

"Nothing fair ever came out of the barrel of a gun, Dent," Batman says, raising his hands.

"We all have the same chance that she did," Dent says. "Fifty-fifty."

"The girl's already had her turn," Batman says, and Barbara can't help but bristle. Girl.

Dent seems to think for a moment, pausing and weighing the options, and Barbara looks at Batman. Their eyes meet and she sees something there – pain. He must have had a hard night and to have to negotiate her safety again…

She won't look at her uncle or her family.

"Let her go, Dent. What happened to Rachel wasn't chance. We decided to act. We're all responsible for the consequences."

Dent tenses. "Then why was it only me who lost everything?" he yells.

Pretend to faint, she thinks. You'll be dead weight in his arms. You're much heavier than you look.

"It wasn't," Batman replies.

…

It wasn't.

He's telling the truth, though he hardly expects either man to fully understand how much he's lost. He lost Rachel, sure, but it's more than that. He made decisions that resulted in death and destruction. He put Barbara in harm's way. He lost her faith in him – that much is certain, or should be by now. He's put Gordon in harm's way more than once. His decision to become Batman brought them all here. He's the reason for their loss.

Dent waves the gun in the air and stammers about the Joker and losing, then he holds out his coin again.

"You're right," he repeats. "She's already had her chance. Let's start with you."

The flip of the coin is expected – the gunshot is not. He falls even though he doesn't feel a thing – his armor has taken most of the hit. Gordon's wife screams in the distance, and Barbara gasps – but she should know better.

"My turn." There is no shot. Bruce looks up from the ground. Dent turns to Gordon, flips the coin again.

"Let's try your luck, Gordon," Dent says.

"No!"

Barbara's dead weight in Dent's hands as she faints. The man struggles to hold the girl and this is the right chance. The right opportunity for Bruce to make his move, the one Dent wasn't expecting. He's on his feet and running as the man struggles to maintain a grip on the coin, the girl, and the gun. He drops Barbara right as Bruce slams into him.

…

"Oh god," she hears right before she opens her eyes.

"What's wrong?" she scrambles up, no worse for the wear, but her aunt is screaming and her cousin is crying and her uncle is running away, down the stairs. Tthere's debris all over her face. Her arm hurts from when Dent let go – her angle of impact left much to be desired. But she's alive and whole, and so is her family.

The other's she's not so sure of.

Shakily – it's got to be the adrenaline – she makes her way through rubble to look down over the edge. There, Dent lies – presumably dead. Batman slowly climbs to his feet. She can hear her uncle and the other man talking, and what they're saying.

She runs to the stairs.

…

"No," Barbara says calmly. "It's what needs to be done. You need to be hunted."

Looking into her eyes, everything seems to click: Barbara's right, and she's always been right. Batman is – must be – a vigilante. To let Harvey's legacy prevail. To get the message across. To do a thousand and one things that she's probably known all along.

With her confirmation, it's suddenly clear what needs to happen. He never should have tried to rein her in but now he's got to set her lose; set her back on the path he ripped her from all those months ago in some vain attempt at order. No more grunt work, no more distractions – he needs her dedication and the website, he needs a imessage/i. There's only so much to be achieved by running. But if he were to have something else instead -

She knows it too. Her eyes say as much. Her shoulders squared, feet firmly on the ground, she is not the girl flinching under Harvey's anger but the girl he's always know, the one who keeps him grounded, the center of his haphazard orbit.

Gordon offers excuses which he rebuffs easily: no, this is the right way. No, this needs to be done.

The barking outside grows louder.

"Wait."

She's in his arms, hugging him, and it feels far too comfortable.

"If I never see you again," she whispers, "good luck."

Without hesitation, he whispers back. And then he lets her go, running into the night.

…

She can feel the breeze left by each canine and the patrolmen, and she closes her eyes. She prays to whatever saint or deity protects the hunted to keep him whole, keep him safe, keep him here.

Her uncle's touch on her shoulder brings her back to herself.

He escorts them to an ambulance, where they are examined. They're given water and asked questions and they wait. Soon her uncle finishes everything and heads to a car – his car. The ride home is silent as it should be, with her aunt's muffled sobs breaking the tension every few minutes.

They cling together as a family, though none of them talk about it. Her uncle brushes the hair from her face and asks if she's okay. After all, she's been taken hostage not once but twice in the course of two weeks. There has to be something wrong here.

She smiles ands nods, preoccupied with remembering the address he told her.

Jimmy falls asleep with one parent on either side of him, reassuring him that they all are safe, even Barbara. She smiles and tells him that everything will be different now with their dark knight. When the opportunity arises, she writes a note saying she's off to see a friend who needs her, then heads to the address she looked up.

It's in the best part of town, full of swanky high-rise buildings and hotels. In her distraction, she doesn't realize she's at the Hotel Gotham until uniformed bellmen hold the door open for her.

The elevator takes her to the top floor and the doors open to a large, lavish, apartment. Penthouse. Whatever it is, it's the entire floor and its polished wood floors as a view of the city that takes her breath away.

There is a man approaching her, dressed in a suit.

"You must be Miss Gordon," he says with a smile. "It's so very nice to meet you. My name is Alfred." He shakes her hand, which takes her by surprise. She doesn't even know what she's doing here, let alone –

"Hi," she says meekly. "Nice to meet you."

"Would you like a drink?" he asks. She blinks.

"Water would be fine."

"I meant something a little stronger." He winks at her, and she stutters.

"I –"

"I'm sure we can find something a little stronger," he says with a wink. "Down the hall to your right."

He turns and walks away, and she assumes he wants her to walk down the hall, and to the right. She's too tired right now, and her body feels like it's floating somewhere above her head, so she does what she is told.

She rounds the corner and sees him – Batman – in the process of taking off his cowl.

She is not surprised to find he has brown hair, or that he's tall. From behind, he's what she expected – average. Well, not average – definitely built, but she knows all of this. He's the man who beats down thugs for a living, after all.

But then he turns, and faces her, and suddenly everything falls into place.

The library. Stopping by randomly, supplying her with money. His means of transportation – that motorcycle, that car. The fact he can afford body armor for Christ's sakes.

Bruce Wayne is Batman.

I should have known she thinks. The address he told her brought her here, to Bruce Wayne's penthouse. But the problem is that everything is a hazy fog and she feels like she's moving forward when all she wants to do is stand still.

"Barbara," he says softly.

"I think I'll need that drink," she says.


	12. Epilogue

They stay up well into the morning, and Barbara has several of Alfred's remarkably stiff vodka tonics.

He tells her everything: how it all started, why he chose a bat, what his plans were for Gotham.

"I wanted a better Gotham," he says, cradling his own drink between his hands. "I wanted a city like my parents wanted – where people were good and decent, the mob wasn't in control, and police fought for what was right."

"So you decided to find some body armor and dress like a bat," she says. He laughs.

"I did." He takes a drink. "Now I'm not entirely convinced that was the best option."

"I think the end result is what matters," she says. "But it's too early to determine that." She doesn't want to judge his success based on the current atmosphere (and body count).

He sighs. The first glimpses of sunlight creep over the horizon.

"You can see all of Gotham from up here," she says.

They sit in silence, and maybe it's the alcohol, but she decides to tell him what's on her mind.

"I wish you had told me who you really are," she says, tracing the ridges of the fancy crystal glass with her fingertips. After all that's been said between them, she doesn't want to meet his eyes right now.

"Why?" he asks.

"It would have been easier – for me – when you kept stopping by the library." She takes a breath. "They used to say stuff about it – the older librarians. They were jealous. It would have made it easier to understand what was going on if I knew why you were coming."

Maybe it's the alcohol, maybe it's something else, but she tries her best not to cry in front of him.

"I wish you had told me that was going on," he says.

Barbara laughs. "What was I supposed to say? 'Oh, hey, by the way, you need to get Bruce Wayne off my back because the other librarians are spreading rumors?' Yeah, that wouldn't have come up in casual conversation when you were busy trying to distract me."

It's her turn to take a deep breath. It's been a long day, and an even longer month. She's starting to feel the strain of everything: her back hurts, her head hurts, and her brain hurts. She wants nothing more than to go to sleep and wake up and she's back to where she was the morning before Bruce Wayne walked into the library.

"How are you holding up?" Bruce asks.

"I'm not sure," she says. "Ask me that question in a week."

"Agreed," he says. He runs a hand through his hair and she understands why she acted so silly around him before. She isn't that girl anymore – she feels older now, as absurd as that seems. It can hardly be weeks when it feels like a lifetime ago.

Barbara doesn't know what ghosts haunt him, and isn't sure he'll ever tell her, but she knows that they've both been through a lot and that has to count for something in the end.

Alfred arrives in time to refill their glasses and bring them some water and buttered toast, which she accepts gratefully.

"You know, you were right," Bruce tells her between bites.

"You mean I was right that dressing like a bat is just asking for trouble?" From somewhere in the kitchen, she hears a muffled chuckle and is glad that least someone in this household is sane.

"About being a vigilante. About Batman."

"Not entirely," she says. "Sure, you worked outside the law and with the law but you're more of an outlaw now than a vigilante."

"But now…" he trails off. "Now I'm not really sure what I'm supposed to do."

Barbara finishes off her piece of toast and licks butter off her thumb.

"Watch the sunrise," she says. "And then rest. And then we can figure out what to do from there."

She knows he's looking at her, and she knows she's being presumptuous, but she reaches for another piece with a shrug. She refuses to look at him.

"Look, buddy, I'm in this now so you better deal with it."

He laughs, but doesn't say anything else. Beneath them, the city rises to the news that the Joker is captured and their district attorney is dead.

…

It's cloudy on the day of Dent's public memorial, and Bruce finds himself there out of lingering respect for the man. He's already been to the funeral, seen the coffin – Dent's body, Rachel's ashes – lowered into the ground. His seat is on the stage, a position of honor given out of respect for his contributions to Dent's campaign. In front of him, Gordon gives a heartfelt speech about the impact of Dent on Gotham City. Despite what happened that night, he knows the Commissioner means every word.

And Barbara's there too, even though she said she wasn't going.

It's not difficult to find her at the back of the crowd, watching her uncle at the podium. Her hair is pulled back, and she wears a leather jacket. A messenger bag is slung across her body.

Alfred likes her, which is why he encourages her presence at the penthouse. Bruce finds that she's the only one he can talk to besides Alfred. He thinks it's the same for her, which is why she accepts his invitations or why she invites him to her tiny apartment when she finally decides to move back home (she was going to get a dog; he installed a high-tech security system from Wayne Enterprises, to make her feels safe). It's a tense friendship built on months of secrecy and scant days of truth, but it's one of the few things keeping him steady right now.

In honesty, he's not sure how long that steadiness going to last.

Barbara meets his eyes. She was fairly vocal about the massive display of public affection towards the fallen district attorney, and equally vocal about the sudden display of public hatred towards Batman. She had her own plans for how things should go, and while Bruce hasn't exactly dissuaded her, he's not given her his seal of approval. He knows that doesn't matter, that Barbara is going to do what Barbara is going to do, and there's very little that he can do to change that.

He can only hope that she has the right idea.

Barbara turns, and walks away from the memorial service towards the back of the crowd. From her bag, he can clearly see her pull out the helmet, and even after she disappears from view, he knows where she is when he hears a bike rev, then the screech of tires as she peels out. There are several cries of confusion and anger that disrupt the memorial, but Barbara and her bike are long gone.

Gordon's speech wraps up, and the crowd breaks out into applause. Bruce joins them, watching as balloons are released into the air as a symbolic gesture. The crowd cheers even louder.

Bruce has put his faith in the people of this city. He hopes to god they won't fail him now. He hopes to god _he_ won't fail them now.


End file.
